


Shattered

by Lynse



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Secrets, Sequel, Suspense, Trust Issues, mild Arthur/Gwen, minor use of other characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 153,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynse/pseuds/Lynse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lies can destroy friendships, destroy lives. But sometimes, maintaining a lie is the only thing that can preserve everything. Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/692544/chapters/1273332"><i>Intentions</i></a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place after my story _Intentions_ , which diverged from canon after series four. You’ll have to read that story first to understand this one as I pick it up almost immediately. As with last time, there’s no slash, and any spells that show up over the course of the story will be taken from the _Merlin_ wiki page. Standard disclaimers apply.

Arthur had never thought he would be a good actor.

He’d seen countless fools perform, watched various troupes enact stories, and listened to many a storyteller and minstrel in his time, but he’d never quite appreciated their talent before now.

He knew what it was like to steel himself for battle, to put on a brave face for the sake of the knights. For the sake of all of Camelot, really. But this was different. 

This was…. This was a lie.

A constant lie.

He ate when he had no appetite, drank wine he never tasted. He smiled when it was called for and could even muster a laugh if necessary. He listened to the pleas of his people and handed out just rulings, oversaw the knights’ training and suffered through council meetings. He made plans to tour through the outlying villages, he gave speeches, he arranged to host delegates from other kingdoms….

He did everything that was expected of him, but his heart wasn’t in it.

His head wasn’t in it.

He was hollow inside, merely going through the motions, wishing desperately that no one would notice.

Wishing that those who did would come up with a reason other than the truth upon which to lay the blame.

But although he was treated to a few lingering looks, no one confronted him.

Not even Gwen, although he suspected that might be because she believed she already knew the truth.

But she didn’t.

Not all of it.

She wasn’t sharing his pain.

She didn’t have to live the same lie as he.

To be honest, Arthur wasn’t sure how Merlin had managed to do it for so long. He’d thought Merlin was a terrible actor.

Of course, he’d also thought Merlin a terrible liar.

Arthur had thought this would be easier without Merlin around. He’d thought it would be easier if he didn’t have to face Merlin every day. He thought he’d rather choke down a feast that tasted of nothing more to him than sawdust under George’s watchful eye, no matter how fresh the fruit or how recently the bread had come from the ovens, than to have to eat whatever Merlin found him for breakfast.

He’d thought that things would be easier in the morning.

That, if the first morning remained difficult, the second would be better. That time would make the wounds less painful. That the distance between the present and the secrets of the past would somehow make everything seem _less_. Less important, less cutting, less _real_.

It didn’t.

Nothing did.

Arthur had seen to it that Merlin had set off for home the morning after…everything. Merlin had protested, but Arthur had been firm, and eventually Merlin had agreed to pack his things. _“Just for a few days,”_ Merlin had said eventually, after a long evaluating stare that Arthur had found reminiscent of Gaius. _“To give you time.”_

And because he hadn’t seen his mother in a very long time, and because even Merlin knew better than to refuse the opportunity when Arthur had offered it. And, undoubtedly, because Merlin knew it was more of a command than a suggestion.

But Merlin was due back tonight, and Arthur hadn’t had nearly enough time.

He hadn’t even managed to come up with a good excuse to talk to Gaius alone. To get the facts straight.

And he still couldn’t fight the sickening feeling that rose in his stomach whenever he thought of Merlin. Merlin, and all he was hiding. Merlin, and all he had done.

And Arthur knew he didn’t even know half of it.

Yes, he was grateful, but….

But things would be so much easier if the truth wasn’t the truth. That’s part of the reason he’d never protested when Merlin had proposed…this. This lying, this pretending that nothing was wrong.

At the time, Arthur had told himself that his agreement on the matter was for the best of the people. Those in the castle, anyway, if not the rest of Camelot. This abstaining from telling the truth was to protect everyone else from the turmoil he was feeling. 

It was better for Gwaine, for instance, to believe in Merlin’s mask. To believe that the Merlin he thought he knew was the only Merlin there was. That Merlin wasn’t hiding anything. If Gwaine found out that the man Arthur was quite sure he considered to be his best friend was a sorcerer, he’d….

Well, to be honest, Arthur wasn’t quite sure what Gwaine would do. He wasn’t quite sure what he himself was going to do, other than trying to get through another day without anyone else realizing the truth. But he did rather suspect that Gwaine’s method of coping would involve a rather large amount of liquor.

A part of him wished he had the luxury of drinking away this…knowledge and all the stomach-churning feelings it brought with it.

But he was King Arthur of Camelot, and he needed to keep a clear head. Even in situations like these.

Merlin had promised to tell him the whole truth. He’d promised that he wouldn’t keep things from Arthur, that he’d lay the truth out and let the king make his decree. But as much as he hated it, Arthur wasn’t sure he could trust Merlin anymore. After all, Merlin had never said _when_ he’d tell Arthur everything. What if he simply told him _most_ of the truth? Or what if his slanted perspective unintentionally altered the truth of his stories? Arthur would never know.

There was a knock at the door, and Arthur closed his eyes to compose himself. It shouldn’t be Merlin. He shouldn’t be back yet.

Besides, Merlin might not even knock. He didn’t always, even if he should. He barged in unannounced more often than he knocked, actually, so it really shouldn’t be Merlin.

Although he might very well knock if he suspected Arthur to still be in the unsettled state he was.

“Come in,” Arthur called.

Gaius entered, and Arthur let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He rose to his feet, one hand automatically reaching out for the piece of parchment on the desk he’d been spending his hours staring at. He was certain Gaius knew he’d found out Merlin’s secret—Merlin would surely have told him—but Arthur didn’t want to relax, didn’t want to let his guard down. He didn’t want to slip up when someone else was around.

He didn’t want to accidentally shatter the illusion that remained in place for everyone else, the one he now knew was far more fragile than he’d ever realized when he’d blissfully believed in it.

“I brought you something to calm your nerves, sire,” Gaius said, holding out a vial of sickly yellow liquid.

Arthur had already rolled up the parchment, effectively hiding from stray eyes the list he’d made that had helped him realize the truth, so it was easy for him to take the vial from Gaius with his free hand. “I’m not sure I want this,” he admitted.

“It will help,” Gaius said simply. 

“But I’m not—” Arthur broke off his protests, not feeling up to more lying—especially not under Gaius’s stare. “I can’t afford,” he said instead, “to relax my guard.”

“It isn’t very strong,” Gaius informed him reproachfully. “It will not cloud your mind. It will simply relax you enough so that you do not jump at every little sound. Do not think people have not noticed the change in you, sire.”

Perhaps he wasn’t as good an actor as he’d thought.

But he was the king, and people didn’t question him. Not in minor matters such as this. But if he ever tried to do what he must to ensure Merlin’s safety if he continued to stay in Camelot, if he so much as mentioned even _thinking_ about retracting the laws banning sorcery….

Arthur dropped the parchment roll on his desk and met Gaius’s gaze. “How,” he asked, “can you just stand there, calm as ever, knowing that Merlin—?” He couldn’t say it.

Gaius looked at Arthur for a long moment. Then, in a quiet voice, Gaius answered, “Before I even properly met Merlin, he saved me from grave injury. His heart always has been and always will be in the right place. You have no more need to fear his magic than you do to fear him, and you know that Merlin would happily give his life for you.”

Arthur pulled a face. “I know Merlin’s been…. I know what he’s done in the past. I just….”

“The future,” Gaius pointed out, “will be no different.”

“You can’t know that,” Arthur argued softly.

Gaius’s gaze didn’t waver. “I do. I know Merlin. That will not change.”

This was the conversation Arthur had wanted to have with Gaius, but he didn’t feel…ready for it, perhaps. He kept glancing at the closed doors, trying to assure himself that no one else was listening. Even if someone was, they were speaking too softly to be overheard.

Perhaps he ought to drink Gaius’s concoction after all.

“So Merlin’s never—?”

“Merlin is as loyal to you as I,” Gaius replied. “You should not doubt him.”

“I don’t…want to,” Arthur confessed. “But I just…. How can I not? He’s lied, Gaius. For years. I never had any _inkling_ of it until now. If he starts again—”

“I will tell you,” Gaius said.

There was nothing in Gaius’s tone that suggested otherwise. There was nothing that hinted that he might merely be saying what Arthur wanted to hear.

But Arthur hadn’t been able to tell that Gaius was lying when he’d said, in much the same tone, that he did not know Emrys. Gaius was loyal to Camelot. Arthur knew that. He’d sworn he’d never mistrust Gaius again once it turned out that Agravaine had been the traitor all along. 

But Gaius was loyal to Merlin, the boy he thought of as his son. Gaius would protect him—had protected him—from Arthur. Of course he’d sing Merlin’s praises and vouch for him. But Gaius would never risk Camelot. He trusted Merlin, trusted that Merlin would never become a threat, even inadvertently.

Arthur was still trying to figure out if he could trust either of them, at least where the issue of magic was concerned.

Had Gaius been teaching Merlin all this time?

Or had that been this…Kilgharrah person Merlin had mentioned?

As much as he’d hated not knowing, there was still a part of him that wished he’d never put on that blasted pendant. If he’d been a bit more like his father, too wary of anything magical to even consider its use….

But if he’d been a bit more like Uther, Merlin wouldn’t be on his way back to Camelot at this very moment. If he hadn’t been banished, he’d be in the dungeons awaiting a public execution. For crimes of sorcery. Assuming he didn’t use said sorcery to escape and leave Camelot behind forever.

The thought made Arthur feel ill.

Merlin had nearly gotten himself burned at the stake for using magic. Twice, if Arthur counted the time he’d idiotically confessed to it. And he’d risked it…. He’d risked it _countless_ times. 

He’d drunk poison and been prepared to do it again—or, at least, what they’d thought had been poison. He’d followed Arthur out to fight a dragon. He’d thrown himself in front of the Dorocha. He’d…. There were _so many_ times Arthur knew he’d foolishly risked his life, times magic wouldn’t have helped him.

So perhaps Merlin’s intentions were noble and would never change. Perhaps Arthur had him to thank not only for his life and Guinevere’s but also for practically every one of his knights’ and, undoubtedly, most of the citizens in his kingdom. But none of that would have made a difference to Uther. Uther would have had Merlin killed, calling Arthur enchanted if he so much as spoke a word in Merlin’s defence.

So perhaps Morgana was right after all, on one level.

Uther had blindly slaughtered anyone associated with magic.

He had raised Arthur to do the same. Arthur _had_ done the same, even when he’d tried to spare the women and children. He’d known that long before he’d been forced to admit it to the ghost boy at the shrine.

To Merlin, who’d known all about the dangers of disturbing that shrine. Because he had magic, no doubt. Merlin was a powerful sorcerer. He could probably sense it. It would explain why he invariably managed to pick up on anyone who was up to no good and was always proven right in the end, even if Arthur never believed him at first.

But if Uther had been wrong to outlaw sorcery, how many innocents had died? How much blood had been shed in the name of peace? How much was on Arthur’s own hands?

How much of his kingdom was built on a lie, and how would he keep it from collapsing if he started to relax the laws on magic?

Should he even take the risk now? Just for Merlin? Merlin, who had already proven himself more than capable of hiding?

He’d thought the easiest thing would be to do nothing. He knew it cowardly—he ought to act—but he’d reasoned that Merlin deserved to have time to prove himself. Merlin had thought the easiest thing would be for Arthur to banish him. That’s why he’d taunted Arthur that he should do what’s _right_ and not what’s _easy_.

But according to the laws, sorcerers should be executed. _That’s_ what was right, and that was certainly _not_ easy. But the law had read the same for Guinevere’s unfaithfulness, and Arthur had seen her banished, and Merlin had clearly feared Arthur would reach the same decision for him. And feared, as Arthur had seen, that he wouldn’t be able to protect Camelot if he wasn’t there.

It shouldn’t be so hard to trust Merlin.

But it was.

And even knowing that Gaius, loyal as he was to Arthur, would put Merlin’s protection first if it didn’t directly appear to harm Camelot…. What if Merlin did turn against him or _was_ turned against him, even if it wasn’t of his own free will? He knew Morgana practiced dark magic. There had to be something that could rob someone of their senses like that. What if Merlin fell prey and Gaius thought it best to deal with the matter in his own way without informing Arthur?

What if Gaius failed?

Merlin was powerful.

Arthur, who had seen him close to death an uncomfortable number of times, knew he was far from invincible.

Having magic did not mean one was protected from everything.

If someone managed to fool Merlin into thinking he was doing something good and he didn’t realize the truth until too late….

Merlin didn’t deserve to have such a responsibility hanging over his head. _Arthur_ was the one who needed to be ever-aware for the sake of his kingdom. Arguably, it was better for Merlin if Arthur didn’t allow him to stay. He wouldn’t have to worry about being the one who unwittingly brought about the end of the kingdom—from within, no less.

Of course, Merlin was more stubborn than an ass, and he’d never see the logic of it.

And Arthur felt less…. He wasn’t as comfortable with ordering Merlin about as he used to be. Telling him to go home to visit his mother…. That had been different. That wasn’t something Merlin would protest. Arthur knew Merlin wouldn’t mind doing that. He would even enjoy it, for all that he wouldn’t have appreciated the timing.

But now that he knew Arthur knew about his magic, maybe he wouldn’t…. Maybe he wouldn’t be so hesitant to use it in front of him when it was just the two of them. Maybe he wouldn’t abstain from using it on Arthur himself if he wasn’t afraid that doing so would mean Arthur would find out. Maybe—

But this was Merlin.

Merlin had not, in the past, shown any inclination of taking over Camelot, of having Arthur acting as a mere puppet to his will.

Of course, he’d never shown any talent for much of anything before, either.

Well, Arthur supposed he was moderately learned in the healing arts.

Still. _Merlin_. The thought shouldn’t even be crossing Arthur’s mind.

_But Merlin is a sorcerer._ A warlock, he’d said. Because he’d been born with magic. 

Even though Arthur didn’t want to admit it, he felt that just made things worse.

He should never have put on that blasted Stone of Æthelu.

If he hadn’t, if he’d given up his search for Emrys, he wouldn’t have to be dealing with… _this_. He could still be believing in the lie like everyone else. And Merlin would just be Merlin, and Arthur could trust him with his life.

But it was better this way, even if it didn’t seem like it. Because this meant things weren’t going on behind his back and under his nose. This meant he could judge things fairly. He could be confident in his decisions. 

In theory.

He wanted to give Merlin a chance to explain himself. Merlin’s actions in the past seemed to warrant that. But Arthur wasn’t sure how much time Merlin would ask for, and he had a terrible feeling that Merlin would try to extend it until he could convince Arthur to change Camelot’s laws.

As if that were an easy thing to do.

Merlin always tried to see the bright side of things. Arthur had always thought it a somewhat endearing quality. But now he wasn’t so sure how much of Merlin’s optimism was real. He wasn’t sure how much of the Merlin he knew was real. Merlin said that his magic was the only thing he’d kept from Arthur, but Arthur couldn’t bring himself to believe that.

That was too easy, for Merlin’s magic to be his only secret. Arthur could see that now that he’d had time to think. Merlin was prone to wishful thinking, to underestimating things verbally even if he understood the gravity of the situation; Arthur knew that. But he’d also learned, unfortunately, that Merlin was awfully good at telling half truths. 

Arthur wasn’t sure he could tell the difference anymore.

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever been able to.

“It isn’t that simple, Gaius,” Arthur said at last. “I can’t…. I’m harbouring a _sorcerer_!”

“Merlin is your friend, Arthur,” Gaius said firmly. “Everyone knows that, even if you do not freely admit it. And it is something you yourself must know, as it is that friendship which has kept you from acting against him.”

Gaius believed in Merlin. Arthur could see that. He could say with complete confidence that Merlin would never move against Camelot. That he was clever enough— _Merlin_ , clever enough!—to avoid even being tricked into it. But Arthur didn’t have that confidence.

It had been shattered the moment Arthur had realized Merlin possessed magic. That Merlin was a sorcerer. That Merlin was _Emrys_.

There was a small part of him that found the entire affair laughable. Merlin, in a position of power? Merlin, with _any_ power? It was Merlin. The idea was ridiculous.

Except that it was very, very real, and that drained all the humour from the situation.

He wished he could send Merlin away again when he returned, but unless he was incredibly lucky and Gaius had to send him out gathering herbs or some such thing for the entire day, he’d have to face him.

He’d have to look him in the eye, knowing…knowing everything.

Well.

Knowing _almost_ everything.

Enough, at any rate, to know that this wouldn’t last, that theirs was a tentative state which would be easily broken. That the illusion, now that he was aware of it, would never fool him again. That it was far too late to stop, to turn back and take a different path. There was no way to go but forward.

Arthur took a slow breath. “How many people have noticed, Gaius?”

Gaius, wise as he was, knew Arthur was not questioning how widespread the knowledge of his friendship with Merlin was. He did not clarify his answer, but Arthur knew exactly what he meant. “All those closest to you.”

Those closest to him.

Gwen. Gaius. His most trusted knights: Leon, Percival, Gwaine, and Elyan. They all knew something was wrong, that something had him on edge. Of those, Gaius knew the truth. Gaius and Merlin, Arthur supposed. Guinevere certainly suspected it, and she knew half the story, but he trusted that she had said nothing to anyone else, not even to Elyan. Meaning the knights would merely be guessing themselves.

He’d have to allay their fears. It wouldn’t do to have them shooting significant glances behind his back. He didn’t need people to start whispering. It would be hard enough to ensure that didn’t happen once Merlin returned; he certainly didn’t need it beginning already.

“And beyond them?”

“Nothing of note, sire. You have not quite been yourself since you began your search for Emrys. People merely presume that you are still desperate to find him.”

He’d been less himself since he’d _found_ Emrys, but it was better for the people not to know that. In a day or two more, he could drop the façade altogether. It would be more than long enough by then to admit that their resources best be put to other matters. Tracking Morgana’s movements, for instance. Something else could eclipse his attention, and he could officially close the matter for the time being without the people being any the wiser.

That way, it would be less an outright lie and more a withholding of information for the time being.

Arthur’s stomach twisted at the thought of that justification for lying to his people. A small part of him wondered if this is how Morgana had felt when she’d been fooling the kingdom into thinking she was nothing more than Uther’s loving ward, restored at last to his side after a harrowing experience that was too trying to speak of. It was unlikely; by then, from what Emrys— _Merlin_ —had said, Morgana had already completely turned against Camelot.

Morgana’s treachery was something else that Arthur hadn’t seen until it was far too late.

Arthur couldn’t help but wonder if he’d known about her earlier, if he’d noticed—or if Merlin had _told_ him and proven his claims—if anything could have been done. So that Morgana wouldn’t have been swept down such a corrupt path. He could have helped her, perhaps. They could have still been friends.

But Arthur wasn’t so sure his support would have been enough.

He knew his father as well as Morgana did. “Morgana would have been put to death by Uther if she had been discovered,” Em—Merlin had said.

The knowledge made Arthur’s heart ache, for he knew it to be true enough. Uther had been heartbroken by Morgana’s treachery, especially once it had become more evident that she was not merely acting as Morgause’s puppet. He had loved her, blindly, as the daughter she was. Sorcery, however…. That ignited a fury in Uther that blinded him to everything else, and certainly by the time they’d realized the truth of it, Morgana had been beyond saving.

But Morgana…. In light of what she’d become, his father—their father—had been proven right. People like her were the reason Uther had instigated the laws! To _prevent_ this. If she _had_ been discovered and put to death….

Things would be different.

He knew better than to assume it would be better. Camelot would be facing a new threat—there seemed to be no shortage of them—and it could well be as formidable as the one Morgana posed. But would the risk of destruction be the same? Would it still be magical in nature?

Would it still be something fuelled by Camelot’s bans on sorcery?

Arthur allowed his shoulders to sag, just slightly. This was Gaius. Gaius was one of the few people who could look easily behind his masks. “Good,” he said, not bothering to hide the weariness in his voice. He wished this were over, but it wouldn’t be, not for him, even if it seemed to be over for everyone else.

Everyone still caught in the illusion, anyway.

“Best take that now, sire,” Gaius said, eyeing the remedy Arthur was still clutching. “It will not take me long to prepare another if you desire it.”

“Yes, of course,” Arthur said automatically, though he made no move to take the concoction. Later. Right now, he needed to think. “Thank you, Gaius. That will be all.”

Gaius bowed his head and took his leave, and Arthur stared at the door long after Gaius left. He’d holed himself up in his chambers after he’d concluded his most important duties—the ones he couldn’t pass off to others, at any rate—as he had done every day since he’d discovered Merlin’s…. Since he’d discovered Merlin. He wanted to keep up appearances. 

But it was…. He’d faced down a _dragon_ , but this almost seemed…harder. Less certain.

Especially since he knew that the next time his doors opened, it might be Merlin. Back from Ealdor, back from visiting his mother, and, as far as everyone else in the castle was concerned, ready to resume his usual duties as if he’d never left.

But it wouldn’t be like that at all.

It would never be like that again.

Because Merlin wasn’t just Merlin. He was also someone else, someone Arthur didn’t know and couldn’t trust, and…. And he had to pretend that that other Merlin didn’t exist, all for the sake of the kingdom, just long enough to hear Merlin out, and then he’d have to…. He’d have to….

Arthur sighed, wrenched open the vial, downed Gaius’s mixture, and closed his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Gwaine was on his way to the tavern when he saw a familiar figure picking his way through the streets of the lower town, and his face split into a grin. “Merlin!” he called, waving.

Merlin spotted him and cracked a smile in return as he made his way to Gwaine’s side. He looked tired, which was understandable, since he’d undoubtedly been walking since before dawn; Arthur, in his infinite wisdom, hadn’t felt that they could spare a horse.

If Gwaine had known ahead of time, he would have argued in Merlin’s favour. He would have offered to go _with_ Merlin to protect him, come to that. True, he knew it wasn’t the first time Merlin had made the journey by himself, but it was Merlin. Gwaine had seen him in a fight. He could still use some pointers.

Then again, if any of the bandits Merlin happened across had eyes, they might well decide that he was unlikely to have anything of value on him.

Unfortunately, Gwaine was all too aware that most of the cutthroats out there attacked in hopes of getting something, anything, anyway.

But Merlin looked no worse for the wear, so he had, miraculously, managed to avoid trouble.

“How was the journey?” Gwaine asked as Merlin joined him. 

“Fine,” Merlin said brightly. “Better than when I’m out with you lot, really, because I didn’t run into trouble.”

Gwaine laughed. “Well, you can tell me all about your non-trouble over a pint,” he said, jerking his head towards The Rising Sun. 

Merlin, predictably, pulled a face. He never had been the easiest one to drag to the tavern. It wasn’t like fights _always_ broke out whenever he went, and it wasn’t like he didn’t have a taste for it. He went readily enough when Arthur was going, and it was still technically his day off. He didn’t have to report to Arthur the moment he got back. 

“Arthur’s lasted this long without you,” Gwaine pointed out. “He’ll last a little longer. It’s not like Morgana attacked while you were away.” Not that Merlin would have been able to do anything if she had, but considering he always seemed to imagine the worst, Gwaine felt it prudent to reassure him. “Really, nothing’s changed. Arthur is still searching fruitlessly for this Emrys fellow, and I’m taking bets as to when he gives it up. Elyan thinks he’ll hold out for a week. Percival said two, in light of Arthur’s stubbornness, but I think he won’t last three more days. You want in on this?”

Merlin was frowning now, and he looked a bit paler than he had a moment before, but that could be a trick of the light. “He…what?”

“You know Arthur,” Gwaine said, shrugging. “He’s getting frustrated, and he’s too concerned about being the king his father wanted him to be and still being himself without completely tarnishing Uther’s legacy to last for much longer. He can only pawn off his duties on the rest of us for so long, and he knows it.”

“Oh,” Merlin said. “Right.” When he smiled, Gwaine could tell it was forced. “Maybe things will get back to normal around here once he does give up, right?”

While Gwaine had been expecting to hear something along those lines eventually, he had also expected Merlin to sound convinced of them himself. “Hey,” he said, not being able to bring himself to match Merlin’s weak smile, “did something happen?”

“In Ealdor?” Merlin asked, in a way which led Gwaine to suspect he was deliberately misinterpreting the question. “No, nothing unusual. Look, maybe you’re right. I’ll tell you all about it first. If Arthur’s still having me run after Emrys, I won’t have much of a chance later.”

Something had happened.

Gwaine wasn’t sure what, and he wasn’t entirely sure it had even been in Ealdor—Merlin surely would have sent word if his mother was ill and he was spending more time away than Arthur had initially allowed him—but he couldn’t imagine what it would be. If it _had_ been something here in Camelot, Merlin surely wouldn’t have gone home quite yet. He’d been looking forward to it when he’d informed Gwaine that Arthur was going to give him some time to go home for a visit, but if something was wrong here, there was no reason for him not to wait a few more days. As much as his royal highness could be a complete prat, he’d keep his word. Merlin didn’t have to worry about Arthur retracting the offer.

Which meant, really, that Gwaine couldn’t even venture a guess as to what was really going on Merlin’s mind. It wasn’t like him to leave a sticky situation behind. Even when given the opportunity to sit out trouble, he would always plough right on anyway. He didn’t fear danger—he could be a bit reckless, and even Gwaine could recognize that—and he didn’t fear getting into trouble.

But though Merlin’s mouth was smiling, his eyes still looked dark, and Gwaine wasn’t fooled for a second. 

Now, Gwaine knew the value of using liquor to loosen tongues, but he wasn’t one to apply that principle to friends.

Not usually, anyway.

But if Merlin was willing, then Gwaine wasn’t above trying. While he doubted Merlin would drink enough to forget himself—contrary to Arthur’s evident beliefs, Gwaine knew Merlin was unusually careful when it came to that sort of thing—he hoped Merlin might be distracted enough to let something slip. In Gwaine’s opinion, he didn’t ask others for help often enough. When he did, it was usually for someone else, and Gwaine thought it rather pigheaded of Merlin to try to go things alone as often as he did when he truly needed help.

That’s what Gwaine really thought Merlin was up to whenever he disappeared without a word. Sure, he was a little hurt that Merlin never confided in him—hadn’t he proven he could be trusted since he hadn’t breathed a word about helping out on Arthur’s quest?—but he always figured Merlin just didn’t want to bother him with his problems. Gwaine had told him time and time again that that wasn’t the case, but Merlin had always just smiled and, with a few words, managed to change the subject, so Gwaine had never pushed it.

Even though he had to admit he _was_ curious about what Merlin was up to whenever Arthur thought he was in the tavern.

If Arthur had asked _him_ , he’d tell the truth rightly enough, but Arthur never thought about that, so Gwaine never opened his mouth. He figured it was another way of showing Merlin he could be trusted. He had his back. Merlin ought to know that by now.

“Sounds good,” Gwaine agreed, clapping Merlin on the back. “I’ll get the first round, shall I?”

“I don’t know if I can stay for more than one,” Merlin warned him.

Gwaine smirked. “We’ll see,” he said, thinking he’d get at least three into Merlin before he let him go. 

-|-

To be honest, Merlin got back later than Arthur had been expecting. He’d spent the hours waiting for Merlin’s inevitable arrival torn between worry and relief. But now Merlin was here as if he’d never left. He’d waltzed into Arthur’s chambers, made some snarky remark that already escaped Arthur—something about not greeting him right away—and went about collecting Arthur’s clothes, rambling on about his visit home.

Arthur couldn’t believe it.

Merlin was acting as if nothing had ever happened.

After a quick glance at the door to assure himself that it was tightly closed and he wouldn’t be overheard, Arthur hissed, “How can you do that?”

Merlin, who had been gathering up his tunics, paused and looked over at him. “Do what?” he asked, sounding like he honestly had no idea what Arthur meant.

“That.”

Merlin blinked at him. “Pick up your washing?”

Arthur closed his eyes, wishing he had Guinevere’s patience. “No,” he ground out, unwilling to yell at Merlin at the moment, however tempting it was. “Pretending…pretending like _that_. Like nothing happened.”

Merlin looked at him blankly. “Nothing did happen.”

Arthur’s fingers flexed and he had to stop himself from reaching out to grab the thing nearest to him and throwing it at Merlin. “Of _course_ it did,” he insisted. “You…you have….” He shook his head. “I _know_ , Merlin. About _you_.”

“Yeah,” Merlin said slowly, “I know. But nothing’s happened recently, has it?”

Arthur threw up his hands. “That _was_ recently! Stop pretending this hasn’t changed anything, Merlin. It’s changed _everything_.”

But Merlin was shaking his head. “Not really. Because neither of us is going to do anything differently until you make up your mind, right?” Arthur glared at him, and Merlin winced. “All right, all right, so I really _was_ in the tavern with Gwaine for a bit when I got back or I would’ve been here earlier. Now maybe you could go back to keeping your voice down?”

So help him, Arthur was going to kill Merlin, magic or not. “You’re late because you were in the tavern?” he said slowly, his tone flat.

Merlin hesitated. “Not for as long as you’re thinking, Arthur. And Gwaine insisted. Besides, it paid off. Did you know he’s taking bets for when you’re going to call off the search for Emrys? Leon didn’t want to go in on it—Gwaine figures he thinks he needs to keep up appearances, him having been around the longest and all—but everyone’s been watching you.”

Arthur sighed. “I know,” he said, his anger draining out of him. Merlin had changed the subject, but he would go back to the point of the matter later. If Merlin had learned anything, it would be in his best interests to find out what that was. “That’s why I kept up the search.”

Merlin beamed at him. “You used your head,” he said approvingly. “That’s a new one, I’ve got to say. I was half expecting you to do something spectacularly thick-headed and give me away.”

Arthur stared at Merlin for a moment before he realized that Merlin didn’t believe what he’d just said. He would have refused to leave if he’d thought his secret was in danger. By leaving, he’d shown that he was trusting Arthur with the secret he’d guarded his entire life, and trusting that Arthur wouldn’t inadvertently let it slip.

Arthur wished he could trust Merlin as much in return, but seeing him come back and just so easily carry on as if nothing had happened….

“How much did you even drink?” Arthur demanded. “Because you’re not acting drunk. Did you just…just do something so you…?” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the question.

Merlin raised his eyebrows incredulously. “Arthur, just because I have magic, it doesn’t mean I use it for every little thing.” He paused. “In the entire time I was there, I had two tankards of ale and a rather large amount of pickled eggs, all courtesy of Gwaine, so I suggest you officially drop your search for Emrys in the next three days so that he can afford that and everything _he_ drank while trying to convince me to have more. It might’ve just been between the two of us, but he must have used a good chunk of his salary.”

So he wanted Arthur to keep quiet to preserve his secret, not because he was in such a state that he couldn’t stand loud noises—though Gwaine might well be that way tomorrow. But still. _Gwaine_ offering to pay for everything? Apparently without protest or some sort of wheedling? That was more worrisome than anything else Merlin had said. 

Assuming it was the truth, considering how often Merlin had lied before and how steady he seemed after having any drinks, when before Arthur had hardly known him to be able to hold his liquor at all.

But perhaps he simply didn’t know how much was a lie and how much was actually _Merlin_ anymore.

Arthur frowned. “Glad to see you, was he?”

“I suppose so,” Merlin allowed, “but he seemed worried about something. He kept asking loads more questions than usual.” 

“Meaning?”

Merlin shrugged. “He knows something’s wrong somewhere and he’s not sure what. From what he was telling me, anyone who knows you well knows that you’re off your game.”

Gaius was right, then. Arthur supposed he wasn’t really surprised. It should be a good thing those closest to him knew him so well.

But that just made everything so much _harder_. 

How did Merlin do it?

Merlin was a sorcerer. For all Arthur knew, he could…modify memories or make them forget things or make them overlook the little telltale signs that—

But this was Merlin.

Merlin certainly wasn’t that clever.

At least, Arthur hadn’t known him to be particularly devious, for all that he did have the occasional moment of cleverness in between being a complete idiot.

But Merlin wasn’t the Merlin Arthur knew, and as much as he tried, he couldn’t…pretend. He couldn’t distract himself so he could forget, for one merciful moment, that Merlin had magic. That Merlin _used_ magic and had for far longer than Arthur had known him. And he couldn’t happily trade barbs with Merlin, either. Not when he…. Not when he knew.

Things just weren’t the same.

And it made Arthur more uncomfortable than he’d ever admit aloud.

If only he’d never heard Morgana mention Emrys. If only Coran hadn’t told Arthur his true purpose. If only the Druids had said nothing to Gwaine or Gwaine nothing to him. If only Merlin hadn’t felt bound to deliver him that bloody Stone of Æthelu or if he hadn’t put the blasted thing on. If only he’d dropped this matter when he’d first had the sense that it was bigger than he really thought. If only….

But there was no use thinking on how things would be blessedly different when they so very clearly weren’t and would never be again, at least where this matter was concerned.

“Everyone thinks it’s just because you still haven’t managed to catch Emrys,” Merlin continued, blithely unaware of Arthur’s inner turmoil. “I don’t think anyone suspects the truth.”

“Who could conceive the truth?” Arthur asked bitterly, still partly wishing he hadn’t. 

Merlin, who by now had an armful of dirty clothes, finally stopped what he was doing—more likely because he’d finished gathering everything up than anything else—and gave Arthur a measured look he’d expect from Gaius or Gwen. “Arthur,” he finally said, “things don’t have to change between us.”

Merlin clearly didn’t understand anything.

Everything already _had_ changed.

Yes, he was going to have to pretend it hadn’t, but every time he looked at Merlin….

“And if you keep looking at me like that all the time,” Merlin added, “everyone else is going to realize that you think something has changed. Arthur, it hasn’t. I’m still the Merlin you know. I just…have magic. That doesn’t make our friendship a lie. That doesn’t taint my loyalty to you or to Camelot. _I’m not Morgana_.”

Arthur bristled immediately, not liking the fact that Merlin had called him on his thoughts that way—or wanting to speculate on whether or not Merlin had used something other than ordinary means to divine them. “I never said you were.”

“You didn’t have to.” Merlin sighed. “Arthur, this won’t work if you can’t play along.”

“Don’t make this into a child’s game,” Arthur said immediately. “Not something as important as this.”

Merlin snorted. “I wasn’t. You of all people know how important it is to act the way people expect you to. I’ve seen you sit through meetings when you’d rather be hunting and greet delegates from kingdoms with whom Camelot’s ties are more…strained. I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t know how to do, Arthur. I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t already do, nor something _I_ don’t already do. I just asked for time so that I could help you to understand.”

But he _did_ understand. He understood all too well. Merlin was a sorcer— _warlock_ , he had magic and he _used_ magic, and he was more powerful than Morgana. And he was in Camelot, playing at being Arthur’s manservant and Gaius’s apprentice and laughing and grinning and playing the fool because that was what people _expected_ of him.

Who would look twice at a mere serving boy, after all? Especially one as clumsy as Merlin.

He’d built a mask, and everyone in Camelot—except for Gaius, Arthur supposed, and now him—believed it. No one ever thought to look beneath it because there didn’t seem to be any need. How could there be a mask to look beneath in the first place? It was _Merlin_. Even if he wanted to, Merlin couldn’t hide something. He was just too incompetent to manage it.

Even Morgana didn’t dream that Merlin was concealing any real power. Even Morgana, whose nightmares had, Arthur now realized, offered her glimpses of the future…. Even _she_ couldn’t see through Merlin’s mask.

He managed it, Arthur decided, because he made it _so easy_ for everyone else to underestimate him. And if no one looked twice, they wouldn’t see.

That was his problem.

For so long, it had slipped by him unnoticed. Or, at the very least, un _noted_. But as soon as he’d started _looking_ , as soon as he’d tried to piece together incidents of obvious magic or extreme luck or things that just couldn’t be explained to his satisfaction….

“Arthur, please.”

He was taking too long to respond. But even though a thousand thoughts could flit through his mind in the space of a second, he kept getting caught up on the painful truth. “You could make me forget, couldn’t you?”

Merlin blinked at him. “Sorry, what?”

“You could….” Arthur waved a hand. “I don’t know, rob me of my memories. Make me forget what I know.”

Merlin pulled a face. “Even if I _could_ do that, and I can’t, I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?” Arthur shot back. “It would be easier for you. It would be easier for _me_.” His voice cracked, and he allowed himself a second to regain his composure. “You wouldn’t have to worry about me giving you away.”

Merlin finally abandoned the bundle of washing in his arms, dropping it at his feet. “Arthur,” he said again, “I meant what I said. Even if this isn’t exactly the best way for you to find out, it’s certainly not as bad as it could be, and I don’t regret that you know. I….” He hesitated. “It was _hard_ , keeping this from you. And I won’t deny that it’s hard now that you know the truth. But it’s a _good_ kind of hard because it’s something that we can work through.”

Merlin wanted to keep him close. So he could keep protecting Arthur, could keep protecting Camelot. So they could salvage their friendship.

Hopefully not so that he would be in an ideal position to become a puppeteer, using Arthur himself as his unwitting mouthpiece.

How simple would it be for Merlin to rob him of his own free will and replace it with whatever _Merlin_ wanted him to do, with him being none the wiser?

He didn’t want to ask that question.

He didn’t want to risk hearing that that _was_ something Merlin could do.

The idea was too unsettling.

“It won’t matter in the end,” Arthur said shortly. “I’ve had time to think about it, Merlin. I can’t change the laws.”

Merlin didn’t blink, knowing all too well what Arthur was talking about. “Morgana?” he guessed.

Arthur closed his eyes, just briefly. “She’s not alone,” was all he said.

“Neither are you,” Merlin reminded him. “And it’s not like I’m expecting you to announce at a council meeting tomorrow that you’re going to repeal all the bans. I’m not naïve enough to think that this is something that can be changed overnight, not with….” Merlin trailed off. “Not with everything that’s in the past.”

Not with all the innocent blood that’s been spilled, from both magical attack and their own raids. Not with the tentative feeling of safety the ban accorded them—or at least the persons in the castle itself. Not with the threats that remained, Morgana most of all, who could well take any change as a sign of weakness and attack.

“Just…think about it some more,” Merlin said carefully, bending to pick up the laundry. He seemed to know that Arthur didn’t want to continue this conversation. “I’m not going anywhere.”

That was one of the things Arthur was afraid of.

“I want those clean by tomorrow morning,” he said instead.

Merlin flashed him his usual cheeky smile, and Arthur suddenly wondered whether Merlin would just… _magic_ his clothes clean somehow instead of actually washing them. Surely it was in his power. For all Arthur knew, he did it on a regular basis. “Of course, sire,” Merlin said cheerfully. “I don’t think these ought to be left any longer, anyway. The stench is worse than the stables.”

Arthur’s mouth opened, the retort on his tongue—but he couldn’t say it. To Merlin, yes. He wouldn’t think twice. But to the stranger who was the real Merlin? Arthur finally choked out, “I’ll expect them back before breakfast,” and pretended he didn’t see the hurt look that flashed over Merlin’s features.

“Of course, sire.” This time, the words were spoken softly, with a stiff, clipped politeness that lacked Merlin’s usual mocking tone. It reminded him a bit of George, to be honest. The words were devoid of Merlin’s spirit, and when the manservant avoided Arthur’s eye in favour of reaching to grab a stray stocking before heading out the door, Arthur wondered how well Merlin’s spirit would hold up to this test.

He wondered how well their friendship would hold up to this test.

If they still had a friendship to begin with.

Arthur’s trust had been the one thing Merlin had had for so long, longer than their actual friendship, in one sense, and now that Arthur suddenly found he couldn’t give it….

He’d expected this to be hard. He hadn’t thought…. He hadn’t thought the list of things he’d rather do, rather be _required_ to do, would be quite so long. But this was how things were now, and if he didn’t keep up the act—

He had to keep up the act. He couldn’t let anyone see through it, not even Guinevere. For Merlin’s sake, and for his own, and for all of Camelot. Because as Merlin had implied before he left, the time he had admitted to being Emrys, this illusion offered them a modest amount of protection. It was not just the uproar they would be facing when the truth about Merlin came out; it was that others were still fooled by the illusion. If he did not break that illusion for anyone else by announcing Merlin and if he allowed Merlin to stay in Camelot, there was a chance that Merlin would be able to help.

Arthur was not foolish enough to think that Merlin had not done the same before, or at least _tried_ to do it or _thought_ he’d done it, because there had been far too many lucky coincidences in the past to blindly assume that they were not the result of Merlin’s hidden magic. 

And perhaps it was best to keep potential enemies close. Now that he saw the real Merlin, he might be able to spot a change coming. He might not be completely blindsided like he had been with Morgana. He might be able to ensure Merlin stayed on the right path.

Arthur did not want Merlin as an enemy. He wanted him as a friend.

Perhaps Merlin was right and Arthur only needed time, only needed to hear the rest of the story to realize that he had nothing to worry about. To be as confident in Merlin as Gaius clearly was. On one hand, Arthur really wanted that to be the case.

At the same time, he was terrified of the possibility that, if he _did_ change his mind in Merlin’s favour, it might not necessarily be wholly his decision to do so.

And he wouldn’t know the difference.

And he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop the whispers of doubt from creeping into his thoughts, not as things were now.

He should never have pushed this so far.


	3. Chapter 3

Even after all this time, Gwen was still trying to adjust to being a queen.

Some patterns had been easily—and happily—broken. Other habits had been harder to shake. But though Arthur had made a point of asking her, more than once, about getting a lady-in-waiting…. She didn’t want to do that yet. 

She had an assortment of maids to help her, of course. Some of her new dresses were rather difficult to put on without assistance, and it wouldn’t do for visiting nobility to come across her scrubbing her own floors. She also simply wouldn’t have all the time she needed to do all her own chores and still tend to her duties as Camelot’s queen.

And there were a few things she certainly didn’t miss having to do.

But she was not keen on the idea of playing favourites, and she didn’t want to pick among the people who had been her equals and friends and promote any one of them to the position she had once held for Morgana. Eventually, perhaps, she’d give in to Arthur’s pointed suggestions and bring in someone new for the position. But until then, she was quite capable of doing some things by herself.

It helped her keep her ear to the ground and be more aware of the needs of those around her. 

That, unfortunately, hadn’t proven fruitful when it came to gleaning what was _really_ on her husband’s mind.

He was still pretending that he was searching for Emrys, though he’d admitted to her that he had found the elusive man at last. She had, wisely, kept his secret, and she’d thought it better not to pry and push Arthur to tell her any more than he was comfortable saying. But she didn’t like being shut out. 

She’d thought, perhaps, that someone else might have seen more in Arthur’s actions than she. That someone else might have been more privy to what he had turned up in his search than she. Arthur was just trying to protect her, she knew. But he needn’t protect her from everything. He had told her this much; surely it wouldn’t mean much if he would tell her just a smidgeon more.

Besides, she wanted to thank this Emrys.

He’d helped them in the past, according to Arthur, and she was quite certain that Arthur didn’t have that wrong.

If he _was_ the old sorcerer who had allowed himself to be caught in the act of ‘enchanting’ the two of them all those years ago, then she had even more to thank him for. After what Morgana had said to her during their last encounter, Gwen had little doubt who the real culprit was. If the sorcerer known as Dragoon _was_ Emrys, then he deserved to be thanked for his efforts many times over.

But she had a rather sneaking suspicion that Arthur hadn’t done that yet.

He was still too tense, too unsettled and uncertain, for her to believe that he was happy with whatever arrangement he had reached with Emrys. On one hand, she was surprised that he had allowed Merlin time to leave to visit his mother now. If Arthur was going to confide in anyone besides her, she would have thought it to be Merlin. On the other hand, Arthur was rather stubborn when it came to things like these, and he knew Merlin’s reactions to magic as well as she did. He never seemed entirely comfortable with the subject. Arthur might well suspect that Merlin could unwittingly give the real Emrys away.

He might think the same of her.

Guinevere paused for a moment outside the kitchens to compose herself. This was far from the first time she’d come down here, though her visits had grown less and less frequent as weeks had turned to months and months to years. She’d realized quite quickly that, for all that she had maintained friendships, a wall had been raised between her and everyone else. While she doubted people always guarded their words with her, she heard less than she once had, and no one acted as freely around her as they had in the past.

Her affairs were a bit more complex than simply managing a household, and there were few who still treated her as _Gwen_ instead of _Queen Guinevere_ , despite her numerous requests. 

But Merlin was one of those to whom she was still just Gwen, and he would see her request for what it was.

If he didn’t tell her anything, she’d respect it. Whether his silence was because he didn’t know or thought it best not to say, she trusted him. She was not asking Merlin in an attempt to go behind Arthur’s back, and she was sure he’d see it that way, but if he had realized Emrys’s identity along with Arthur, he might think it too risky for others to know.

Gwen was in and out of the kitchens in a matter of minutes, well acquainted with where to find everything. As a servant, she would never have dared to nick so much, but no one questioned her now, and it was easy to grab a small loaf of bread and a modest bunch of grapes. 

Merlin could do with something more substantial after his journey, but it was better than nothing, and she suspected Gaius would already have gotten some food into him.

As she’d presumed, neither Merlin nor Gaius had yet retired, and both cheerfully bid her entrance. Merlin looked exhausted, and Gaius looked weary. But Merlin would be tired from his journey, and Gaius would have found these past few days as trying as she.

Arthur simply wasn’t himself, and it was a strain to pretend that he was, for the sake of everyone else.

“I brought some food,” Gwen said, smiling slightly. “I thought you’d need it, and I didn’t want you to get into trouble for trying to swipe a snack.” Some of the kitchen staff were quite testy when it came to that, and she and Elyan had had their hands—and hides—rapped far more than once in their youth for trying to sneak an extra scrap of bread on their visits to the castle when their father had been on business.

Merlin grinned at her and accepted them carefully, though he only pulled off a few grapes to eat now. “Thanks,” he said, popping one in his mouth. 

Gwen eyed him for a moment. “I hope you washed your own clothes and not just Arthur’s. His could have waited.”

Merlin shrugged. “They already have. I’m surprised George didn’t have them pressed and neatly laid out for Arthur.”

Gwen hesitated. “Arthur’s not been…himself recently. He isn’t letting anyone get too close to him. He gets his meals but little else.”

Merlin smirked. “So you’ve been dressing him.” It wasn’t a question.

Despite herself—and despite the fact that Arthur was her husband and that Merlin had been among the first to know about their relationship—Gwen felt her cheeks warm, and she prayed that Merlin couldn’t tell and was more thankful than she cared to admit that Gaius was pretending to read the book in front of him. “I’ve been tending to whatever needs doing,” she answered, “that he’ll allow me to. I’m the only one he lets freely into his chambers since you’ve gone.” She bit her lip, aware that she should have asked about his journey earlier. “I trust you had a good visit?”

Merlin nodded. “My mother was glad to see me, especially once I told her I wasn’t on the run.” He flashed a quick smile at her. “And she sends her best to you. Says she trusts everything’s working out well with you and Arthur, now that Arthur’s through being a complete clotpole.”

The words caused Gwen’s lips to quirk into an answering smile. “Those her own words?”

Merlin just laughed and popped another grape into his mouth. “If you’ve ever the time, you should visit her,” he said instead. “She’d like that.”

“I’d be glad to,” Gwen said sincerely. In the blackest days she’d yet faced, Hunith had welcomed her with open arms, and she’d always be grateful for that. “But I fear I shouldn’t leave Arthur now. Merlin, he’s….” She trailed off and glanced at Gaius, who had not looked up at them again. She appreciated the semblance of privacy, but she was quite aware that it was nothing more than a façade. 

One part of her wished for Gaius to join their conversation, as she had little doubt he knew more about the situation than he let on even if she wasn’t certain he knew as much as she. But another part of her…. If Gaius didn’t know, Arthur would surely want as few people as possible to find out.

“Arthur’s…preoccupied,” she said carefully.

“I know,” Merlin said easily, his tone telling her he thought nothing of it. “The search for Emrys. I’m surprised he hasn’t given it up yet, but I think it’s the only reason he let me go home to visit now.” Merlin paused, then admitted, “Well, that, and something I’m assuming _you_ said to him about working me so hard before, since he brought up me going home first, and I doubt he would have otherwise. He never thinks of that sort of thing.”

Merlin didn’t know.

He didn’t know that Arthur had found Emrys.

She doubted he could speak so blithely on the subject otherwise. 

_She_ certainly found it difficult.

Gwen managed to muster up a smile. “Arthur’s gotten worse since you left, I think,” she said, although she knew full well that that was because Arthur had managed to _find_ Emrys and not because he’d turned nothing up and was becoming exceedingly desperate. “I was just…. You’ve seen him since you’ve been back. Do you think…?”

For a moment, Merlin looked more solemn than she’d seen him in a long time. The light in his eyes had dimmed and shadows cast by the flickering firelight made him seem older than he was. But the next moment, she decided she must have been imagining it. Merlin was tired from his journey, that was all.

“It’s Arthur,” was all Merlin said in the end. And when Gwen didn’t immediately agree, he added, “He’s probably just disappointed that he can’t find what he’s looking for.”

Gwen knew what Merlin didn’t say: that Arthur was used to things working out, to getting what he sought. Compared to the rest of them, he was unused to doing without. He’d certainly had fewer experiences where that had been the case. 

“Yes, of course,” Guinevere agreed, but she didn’t believe her own words, and she rather suspected that Merlin, had he not looked to be asleep on his feet, would have noticed.

From the slight shift in Gaius’s shoulders after he’d turned that last page, she was fairly certain he’d noticed.

And she didn’t _like_ lying to them. They were her friends. They treated her as _Gwen_ , and she valued that. 

But Arthur had found Emrys, and they didn’t know that, and she certainly didn’t want to endanger the man. Not if he was protecting them all. And for all she knew, Arthur hadn’t told Merlin for the same reason: because he was, for the moment, protecting Emrys. That was surely the reason he hadn’t told anyone else, the reason he was continuing to search for someone he’d already found. 

So Gwen did precisely as she had when Leon had first stopped her in the corridor for a private word, when Gwaine had cornered her the other morning, when Percival had stayed behind after his report and when Elyan had found her after his training session earlier today: she smiled, lied, found a way to change the subject, and tried to ignore the sick feeling that had settled in her gut.

-|-

“He’s not back yet,” Leon observed, though he sounded unsurprised by that finding. 

Elyan groaned, knowing full well that it was too early to seriously worry. “Gwaine’s fine. He’s just drunk and having a good time. We should have gone with him.”

“You’ve got patrol in the morning,” Leon pointed out. 

“Yes, that’s why I’m here and not there,” Elyan reminded him. He sat up in bed. “But I might as well be one of the ones to go get him again because I don’t think I’m going to get much sleep.”

“No, I’ll go,” Percival said. “I can carry him back myself if I have to. It won’t be the first time I’ve done it.” From his tone, Elyan knew Percival was perhaps the most worried about Gwaine of them all.

Typically, they had no real reason to worry about Gwaine, and the most they did was send someone out to see if he’d drunk himself into oblivion and needed to be dragged back to his quarters for the night. Assuming they didn’t pick him up in the morning, at least. But most of the time, he held his liquor well enough that he could stagger back under his own power no matter how much he’d had. Not to mention that, more than half the time, his drunken swagger was nothing more than an act. 

Gwaine played up that part of his character, hoping some of the newer knights—and any enemies of theirs who might have heard rumours—would make the grave mistake of underestimating him, of thinking his fondness for drink a weakness. And he was fond of it, no mistake, but he very rarely lost his head. He was more in control than he let most think. But even if Gwaine did stir up trouble at the tavern, purposefully or not, it was never anything lasting and was rarely something he could not talk himself out of—regardless of how much he’d already drunk.

But this time, they all had the feeling that something was wrong, somewhere—even Gwaine, which was one of the reasons he’d gone off to the tavern today. Trouble was, none of them could pinpoint the real root of the feeling, so everyone was on edge.

On the broader scale, it was this search for Emrys. They all knew that; they simply couldn’t say _why_ or what about it was the real problem. Arthur had been at it with additional fervour these past few days, for all that he hadn’t passed off all his duties to Gwen. Frankly, Elyan didn’t think the king was getting much sleep, and from what he’d overheard the servants saying, neither was his sister. From what he’d seen of her, he was inclined to agree with them. She could hide it well enough, but he’d grown up with her. He knew what to look for, and he could spot the signs of tiredness—and of worry—in her face, especially around her eyes. If she wasn’t busy being Queen Guinevere of Camelot, she was the worrying wife.

Arthur had told them all very little, but Elyan would bet his sword that he’d told Gwen more.

And from the way Gwen was acting, Elyan thought he could guess a bit of what that was.

This Emrys fellow, for instance, did not appear to be an enemy of the kingdom, yet Arthur was willing to expend a considerable amount of resources to track him down. Consequently, Elyan believed that Emrys had something of value, a talent from which Camelot could benefit. From the tales Gwen had told him, he fancied it being like the time Arthur and Merlin had set off in search of the last Dragonlord.

Only, there was no threat that he knew to be facing Camelot at the moment. There was the ever-present _possibility_ of threat from Morgana resurfacing or of another sorcerer similarly embittered from either Uther’s reign or Arthur’s own, but he had not been informed of anything specific. 

None of them had, really. Not even when it came to Emrys. They weren’t certain why they were looking for the man. They didn’t know what he looked like. They weren’t even entirely sure what Arthur planned to do once they found him. Throw him in the cells? Offer him some coveted position at court? 

Don’t harm him, they’d been told. Just try to find out everything you can. And _be careful_.

Hearing that from Arthur hadn’t sat well with him. He knew he wasn’t the only one who had just managed to bite back a ‘Why?’ upon that particular order. It wasn’t that any of them were prone to questioning the king, even behind his back. It was that Arthur was usually content to assume the ‘be careful’ was implied, especially because none of them were strangers to danger.

And then there were the rumours. 

He’d seen nothing himself. In truth, none of them had. But he’d caught the whispers. 

Dragoon had turned up again. Elyan had met the man less than a handful of times, and only once face to face. He’d never heard the man’s name from his own lips, but that was the name that was whispered whenever people spoke of the old sorcerer. The one foolish enough to be caught enchanting the prince and a mere servant—though Elyan believed that anyone who had thought Gwen to be merely anything had never seen her temper. But that same sorcerer had been clever enough to escape the pyre, had insulted the king and fled, managing to vanish despite half of Camelot coming out for his execution.

Dragoon had a flair for the dramatic. Elyan’s last encounter with the sorcerer had only enforced that opinion. But at the same time, the sorcerer was sneaky. His age didn’t seem to slow him down as much as it ought to. He could turn up or slip away with hardly anyone—if anyone at all—noticing.

And, apparently, it seemed he had done so again, and what worried Elyan most was the _timing_ of it all.

It was something which preyed upon the minds of the others as well. Why had Dragoon turned up again? And why _now_? What if there was some connection?

It wasn’t something he really had the luxury of worrying about. He and Percival were to be off on patrol at dawn. They’d keep their eyes peeled for anything suspicious—and ears sharp to catch mentions of Morgana or Emrys or anything else that seemed noteworthy—but unless they came across Dragoon in the woods again or skulking along the borders, he wasn’t so sure he’d be meeting the man any time soon. 

That was perhaps just as well, since something about the old sorcerer unsettled him as much as this entire situation did.

The door to their shared quarters banged open, jarring Elyan from his thoughts. Gwaine was back—early, by his standards—and Percival hadn’t even needed to leave to fetch him. Even from here, Elyan could smell the stench of spilt ale on him, but however much Gwaine had consumed, it clearly hadn’t been enough to chase his worries away.

“It’s not just Arthur,” he said bluntly, no doubt seeing their looks. “Something’s bothering Merlin. It might be the same thing. I don’t know. I couldn’t get it out of him.” Gwaine slumped onto his bed. “I know Merlin can be tight-lipped when he wants to be, but sometimes….” He shook his head.

Leon finished the thought. “Sometimes he’s more like Arthur than either of them would care to admit and seems to think he can solve all his problems on his own.”

“His own and everyone else’s,” Gwaine muttered, yanking his boots off. “He’s going to get in over his head one of these days, and I won’t be able to help him if I don’t find out he needs it until too late.”

That was all too true, and each of the knights knew it. “It’s not only Arthur and Merlin,” Elyan found himself saying. “Something’s bothering Gwen, too, the same as it’s bothering all of us.”

“Except I’d wager,” Gwaine said, “that those three know what it is, and we don’t.”

“Arthur will tell us what we need to know when we need to know it,” Leon pointed out, and if Elyan didn’t know him as well as he did, he’d believe that Leon was convinced of his own words. 

But he wasn’t.

None of them were.

“When he does, we’ll be there to help him,” Percival said. “We always are. He can count on us. He knows that.”

That was true; it always was the case. But it would be easier if they knew what was going on. For all that the four of them were known to be Arthur’s most trusted knights, he didn’t confide in them as often as one might think.

But then, it wasn’t their place to be Arthur’s confidants. The advice they could give if they were would be limited. So perhaps things were better this way. Maybe it wouldn’t be easier if circumstances were different. If Elyan had learned anything in his time away from Camelot, it was that knowledge could sometimes land you in a lot of trouble. 

A small part of him wondered—and worried—if this was indeed the case now. 

Arthur always did put himself before everyone else, stepping into danger to protect them.

But if that were the case, he’d never tell Gwen. Merlin, maybe, if he was going to tell anyone, if only because Merlin was probably involved enough to learn it himself anyway. But surely not Gwen.

So perhaps she was as lost as the rest of them.

Elyan couldn’t quite convince himself of that, though. He knew his sister, and she was worrying over something substantial, not something she couldn’t quite name. But perhaps she didn’t know the whole truth while the others did.

Still, even if that were the case, she’d never breathe a word to him. Not if this knowledge was dangerous in any fashion, because she would want to protect them, too. Just like Arthur would. Just like Merlin.

Just like him, really, though he wished he could say that the knights relied upon one another when push came to shove. And usually, he did. But the one time he’d really been put to the test, when the little boy who had been drowned during a raid had begun haunting him, he’d shut himself away and tried to deal with it himself.

It had failed miserably, and if it hadn’t been for Arthur and Merlin, he wasn’t sure he’d still be here. He didn’t know precisely what had transpired back at the shrine, but he’d learned then the benefits of sharing one’s problems. But he could still feel the cold fear, even now, of holding a terrible secret inside of him. A secret which had twisted inside of him, slowly consuming him, and the awful feeling of certainty that no one could help him even if he did share that knowledge. That it was better if he _did_ keep his silence.  
.  
He dearly hoped Gwen did not feel that way now, nor any of the others. But he was now thinking that perhaps they did. And if that were the case, then Gwaine was right: they wouldn’t know the truth until it was too late. 

-|-

“Sire.” The word was spoken shakily, betraying the speaker’s own fear. He was right to fear but wrong to show it, and he’d have to be punished for that.

“Speak,” Sarrum allowed with a wave of his hand.

“We’ve searched for weeks,” the man before him said, repeating things Sarrum already knew. “There is no sign of her, nor of the beast.”

That was not the news he had wanted.

“Then look harder,” he returned, “and longer. I want them back.”

A slight hesitation, and then the fool opened his mouth again. “I am not sure we will be able to find them, sire. She has magic—”

“Find them!” Sarrum roared. The man—someone who clearly was not fit to be called a warrior of Amata any longer, however impressive his initial skill had seemed—flinched. “If you do not,” he added darkly, “then you will take her place.”

A sharp nod acknowledged his words, and the fool bowed low, wisely not opening his mouth.

He would find himself in the pit soon enough, Sarrum knew. The witch was gone, and the sorry beast as well, and he’d not capture them again without a grave mistake on her part—something he believed her too clever to make. But it wouldn’t stop him from trying.

It was…unnerving, not knowing where his enemies lay.

The only satisfaction he had was that he knew her prime target to be Camelot, and he could benefit greatly from the havoc she wreaked.

It was, perhaps, not such a loss that she had escaped after all. He had always made great gains from the destruction of others, and this would be no different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's a tad more interesting now, I trust. *grins* Special thanks to my lone reviewer, SusanaR! I do appreciate your feedback.


	4. Chapter 4

“Arthur,” Merlin said quietly, “you have to stop this.” It was ridiculous, really. Arthur wasn’t being Arthur. Anyone could see that.

From the gossip he’d overheard that morning, at least half the court already had.

Arthur wasn’t fooling anyone, except perhaps for himself.

“Stop what?” Arthur hissed. “Looking for you, _Emrys_?”

Merlin sighed and reached to refill Arthur’s goblet. He’d been like this all morning. He just hadn’t been…himself. He hadn’t thrown anything at Merlin when he’d gone to wake him up. He hadn’t even made a snide remark about the state of his breakfast—something which, compared to what George had probably served him, would have looked particularly dismal. Arthur hadn’t reacted. He’d just…ignored Merlin, really, as much as he could. He hadn’t even _tried_ to banter with him. When he did address Merlin, it was with short, blunt orders, and he didn’t respond at all to Merlin’s teasing.

Arthur was taking his lunch in his chambers, alone. Again, apparently. He’d tried to send Merlin away, but of course Merlin wasn’t going to have it. Clearly, the few days he’d been away had not been nearly long enough for Arthur to begin sorting things out. If anything, he’d gotten worse.

At least he’d listened to Merlin before.

As much as he’d ever listened to him.

Which, really, meant Arthur still didn’t listen except when he thought it convenient to him, which was almost never, but _almost_ never was infinitely better than never.

“Stop acting like you don’t know me,” Merlin answered. “Stop acting like I’ve committed some heinous crime—”

“You have _magic_.”

“Which _isn’t_ —” Merlin broke off, then amended, “All right, so it is, _here_ , but—”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Arthur said dully. “So you’ve said.”

“Well, yes, but it doesn’t—”

“Change anything?” Arthur finished, fierceness creeping into his voice. “How can it not change anything, Merlin? It changes _everything_.”

When Arthur didn’t even say his name in his usual way, Merlin knew this was going to be even more difficult than he’d anticipated. Of course, Arthur always was difficult, but….

Merlin sighed. “It will only change everything if you let it. Let it change nothing for now, Arthur. Hear me out, and _then_ decide whether everything must change.”

“Then _talk_ ,” Arthur ground out. “Just start…. I don’t know. Start at the beginning. I can’t….” He shook his head. “I keep second guessing you, Merlin,” he said bluntly. “I may have trusted you before, but I can’t just trust _magic_ , and….” Arthur didn’t finish.

He didn’t need to. 

“I didn’t mean to kill your father,” Merlin said, knowing it was one of the things that would really be bothering Arthur. He’d said it before—more than once—but never as himself. Never since Arthur had discovered who he was and what he’d done. “Morgana—”

Arthur laughed, a horrible, hollow laugh that didn’t truly belong to him. “Of _course_ it was Morgana.”

Merlin frowned, recognizing Arthur’s tone and not particularly liking what it said about his thoughts. “Gaius can explain it better than I can, Arthur. But Morgana was clever, and she tricked me.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m far from infallible. You know how many mistakes I’ve made. And I just never imagined something like that. When Morgana found out you were willing to do anything to help Uther, even using magic, she made sure that any healing spells would be reversed. That’s why…” His voice caught. “That’s why it seemed to work at first.”

Arthur didn’t say anything at first. Then, finally, “I’ll speak with Gaius later.” To be honest, Merlin didn’t know whether Arthur wanted to check on the credibility of his story or whether he wanted a fuller explanation that still made sense.

A part of him didn’t want to know the answer.

“Then in the meantime, please, just…just treat me like you always did.” They would never get through this if Arthur didn’t stop acting like Merlin was little more than a fixture in the room, something to be seen only in passing and rarely acknowledged. 

On the whole, his safety had depended on his ability to remain invisible, to be discounted and overlooked, but this….

This hurt, far more than it ever had before.

Arthur was treating him as if he were a stranger. Not even that; Arthur was more polite to strangers. Arthur was treating him as _Uther_ had treated new servants. People who were less than him but important enough to make a point of not completely trusting. But that’s who Merlin was to Arthur now: someone little better than a stranger who couldn’t quite be trusted. Who hadn’t proved he _could_ be trusted, as far as Arthur was concerned.

Trusted beyond being allowed to stay, at any rate. Merlin supposed he should be grateful for small mercies, but…. At this rate, he should have stayed in Ealdor a bit longer. Still, while his mother had been glad to see him, she had been worried even before he had launched into the tale of what had happened in Camelot in the past couple of weeks. And afterwards?

After hearing everything, especially Arthur’s reaction, she’d thought it best if he go back but be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice. Just in case. But at least here, he’d be able to see what was happening. And if worst came to worst, he could at least disappear on his own terms. 

“Go help Gaius this afternoon,” Arthur said. “I have no need of you.”

It was an utter lie, and Merlin knew it. Worse still, it meant that if Arthur could discern how his behaviour towards Merlin had changed, he didn’t feel strongly enough about changing it to even make the attempt. Sure, he was considerate enough to ensure that Merlin was out of his sight until dinnertime so that no one would question their strained relationship, but if Arthur had been his usual self, Merlin would have had a list of chores as long as his arm to take care of. Quite aside from tidying up the pigsty that was Arthur’s chambers, he’d have to polish the knights’ boots, sharpen Arthur’s swords and polish his armour, walk Arthur’s dogs, muck out the stables…. 

But Arthur probably wondered now how often Merlin had used magic so that he could finish all his work on time, and—knowing Arthur—the idea didn’t sit well with him.

Merlin sincerely hoped time—more time, anyway—would ease that. For now, he could do little more than what he was already doing. He nodded once, said a redundant, “Yes, sire,” replaced the pitcher on the table, and turned heel. Arthur just needed time. This would still all work out. In time, he would be able to look Merlin in the eye, would be able to stop himself from instinctively recoiling, would not need to think twice before relying wholeheartedly upon Merlin as he did his knights.

But in the meantime, there was this…wall between them, and Merlin wasn’t sure how to break it down. Arthur didn’t seem to want to try, and Merlin was afraid that if he pushed too hard, Arthur would snap. More specifically, he was afraid Arthur would change his mind and send him away.

Whether or not he would tell everyone else the real reason for that was something Merlin couldn’t guess at the moment.

Merlin was on his way back to the chambers he shared with Gaius when he ran into Gwen. She gave him a hesitant smile and asked, “Did Arthur send you away?”

Merlin didn’t particularly want to have this conversation, but he nodded anyway.

Gwen put a hand on his arm. “It’s all right,” she said. “It’s not you.” Actually, it was, but he didn’t expect her to know that. “Arthur’s just…. He won’t even listen to me, Merlin. I thought, once you came back, you could do something to bring him to his senses, but….” She trailed off. “I’m going to try to talk to him again,” she confided, “about Emrys. He can’t keep searching forever. Maybe this time, I can make him see sense.”

Arthur was, no doubt, waiting for an opportune time to call off the search. Merlin supposed he ought to be thankful Arthur had made the attempt to keep up the façade, especially since it seemed to be working. And if Arthur announced a cease in the search today, Gwaine would win the bet.

The smile Merlin offered Guinevere wasn’t entirely faked. “Arthur see sense? We are talking about the same Arthur, aren’t we?”

Gwen laughed. “I’ll talk to him,” she promised. “Just try not to take his mood personally, Merlin. He’s not opening up to anyone right now.”

No, he wasn’t, and Merlin still wasn’t sure whether or not he ought to be grateful. While Arthur might not have told anyone he was Emrys—which he was thankful for at the moment, considering how Arthur was taking the news—he also wasn’t talking to Gaius or, really, to Merlin himself. Their conversations of late didn’t have the feel that they should, the feel of two old friends bantering with each other.

But since Merlin knew the reason for that, he couldn’t pretend that it was just because Arthur was so wrapped up in finding the mysterious Emrys, no matter how much he might want to.

“What’s to take personally?” Merlin joked, though he didn’t manage to keep his tone as light as he wanted to. Not when he knew that he truly was responsible for Arthur’s current state of mind. “It’s a bit of a relief, actually. Arthur would normally be trying to work me to the bone right now. This way, I might get some sleep tonight.”

Gwen’s smile was a small one, her expression carrying a trace of pity that Merlin suspected meant he hadn’t entirely fooled her. “Things will get back to normal around here soon,” she said reassuringly. 

Merlin wished he could believe her, but he knew she was wrong. In this, Arthur was right. Things wouldn’t ever be exactly the same again. They couldn’t be. Things _had_ changed, just a little. In the future, more changes would come, and Merlin dearly hoped they’d be in his favour. But this semblance of normality….

It wasn’t real.

Arthur, he was sure, would accuse him of being used to living a lie. The thought stung, but he couldn’t exactly deny it. Not when so few people knew about the part of himself he tried to keep hidden. But things were so much more fragile now. If Arthur said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing, or even just kept acting the way he did….

Eventually, not everyone would write it off as him being preoccupied with this search for Emrys, and they’d realize Arthur just didn’t act the same way around Merlin.

And then they’d wonder why.

“I hope so,” Merlin said, despite knowing the impossibility of it. “I may not be dodging whatever Arthur’s throwing at me, but this is almost worse.” Then, because he knew Gwen would expect it, he added, “You’re right. He’s really not himself. But if anyone can get him to snap out of it, it’ll be you. He won’t listen to me when he’s like this. He doesn’t listen to me when he isn’t. Even when—especially when—he should.”

Gwen’s lips thinned. “Perhaps I’d better talk to him now. Thank you, Merlin.” And then she was gone, up the corridor and around a corner and out of sight. 

Things wouldn’t ever get back to normal, but Merlin hoped, for all their sakes, that they could pretend it could—pretend it would—for a little longer.

-|-

Gaius looked up as Merlin dragged himself into the room and plopped down on the bench opposite him, though he was mindful enough not to disrupt the books or herbs Gaius had spread out across the table. “Surely you’re not through with everything already?” Merlin rarely made it back here for lunch. Usually, he had little time for anything more than a quick meal he’d nicked from the kitchens in between his chores.

Merlin, who was resting his head on his crossed arms on the table, didn’t look up. Instead, he mumbled, “Arthur dismissed me until dinner. Told me to help you.”

Ah.

Gaius knew what that meant quite as well as Merlin did. “He just needs time.”

“He’s had time.”

“But perhaps not nearly enough. You’ve only been gone a few days, and Arthur has yet to stop and think. He hasn’t paused. He’s been protecting you, Merlin, by keeping up the façade of this search. You know that.”

Merlin shifted so that his chin was resting on his hands. Hunched over as he was, Gaius doubted he was very comfortable. “I know I shouldn’t push him,” he acknowledged. Then, as Gaius had expected, he straightened up. “I just…. The way he _looks_ at me, like he doesn’t even….”

“I fear Arthur does not yet see that you are still you, Merlin. Despite my assurances to the contrary, I believe he fears he knows you little better than he did Morgana.”

Merlin groaned. “I’m _not_ Morgana. How many times do I have to tell him that?”

Gaius raised an eyebrow.

Merlin sighed. “I know, I know. It’s Arthur. I just wish he’d trust me again.” 

“He just needs time,” Gaius repeated, “and for you to be yourself around him.”

“I hope so,” Merlin muttered. Then, louder, “Gwen said she’s going to talk to him. She figures she can get him to officially drop the search for Emrys later today or sometime tomorrow. I expect he’ll listen to her, since he didn’t intend to keep it up for much longer anyway.”

Gaius watched his ward for a moment. “This will work out in the end, Merlin,” he said quietly, “but you cannot expect things to change immediately.”

“I don’t,” Merlin said. “I just…. I want some of the things that did change to change _back_. Arthur’s a complete prat, but….”

“He is still your friend.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” Merlin mumbled. “I tried to be myself, to act the same as I used to, but he just didn’t…. He can hardly look at me, Gaius, let alone _talk_ to me. How can we still be friends?”

“Arthur has done nothing to expose you further,” Gaius pointed out, “nor has he taken action against you. What do you think is holding him back, if not your friendship?”

Merlin didn’t answer him. Instead, he said, “I can finish preparing that infusion while you get a bite to eat.” And before Gaius could open his mouth, Merlin added, “I grabbed some food off Arthur’s plate. I’m not hungry.”

It was a lie, Gaius was sure—at least it was this time—but he suspected Merlin wanted to be kept busy, so he allowed his ward to change the subject and trade places with him. There would be plenty of time for them to finish this conversation later. Arthur, after all, was not the only one struggling to adjust to the new circumstances in which they now found themselves.

-|-

Emrys.

She’d hardly set foot within Camelot’s borders before she heard the name.

The speakers, of course, were sorely ignorant as to who Emrys truly was. She didn’t need to reveal herself to be certain of that. But she had not needed to spend long in the marketplace to hear whispers of how the king was looking for a man named Emrys. Some swore he was a criminal. Some swore the opposite—that he had protected Camelot, not wronged her, and the king now sought him out to commend him. 

She knew both charges were technically true, but she wasn’t so sure that any of the speakers did.

“I don’t think he exists,” the woman next to her confided to the tanner’s son, who was selling his father’s wares.

“You think he’s mistaken?” the boy asked.

The woman shook her head. “I think it’s a diversion,” she announced. “The king’s planning something, mark my words.”

She was surrounded by fools if they all thought Emrys was little more than a name. But fools were easier to trick and control. In time, they’d see the error of their ways. If they proved to be stubborn…. Well, then they’d simply realize how expendable they truly were.

She pushed past the gossiping woman, sweeping past the cooper and the cobbler and the other tradesmen until she came to the weaver. Bartering was something she’d always had a talent for; it was rare she lost an argument, and she had a way of getting what she wanted for what she was willing to give. Eventually, the weaver was content to trade a roughly woven cloak for a salve for joint pain, a tea to ease headaches, and a few of the other mishmash of herbal remedies she was carrying with her.

But the gossip she’d heard, the rumours that were flying about the king’s search for Emrys, were worth far more than the covering she had attained.

Both were valuable, of course. The cloak was no different than what everyone else wore and no one would look twice at it, nor at the stooped figure beneath. But the rumours…. It was the rumours which solidified her course of action and ensured that she would put the cloak to good use.

She donned her new acquisition with a smile before turning and disappearing into the crowd.

-|-

At Guinevere’s insistence, Arthur took his supper with her. He also made sure Merlin was out of the room immediately after delivering the food. Merlin protested, of course, but Gwen did not, which made Arthur wonder just how long he could keep this from her.

When she brought up the subject of his search for someone he had already found, he wondered if he’d last the week without cracking and telling her. Telling _someone_ who didn’t know it all already.

But if it was this hard for him to process, he didn’t want to put that weight on her shoulders. Not yet. Maybe…. Maybe, if he did change the laws on sorcery, or _begin_ to change them, as Merlin clearly wanted, then he’d tell her. If…if Merlin would let him. He didn’t want an angry sorcerer on his hands.

He wasn’t entirely sure what was worse at the moment: an angry sorcerer or a kingdom which did not believe in him. The latter would surely happen if he slipped up. If anyone suspected him of knowing more than he said, of being lenient where _sorcery_ was involved, of being an unfit king….

He was not his father, but if he did not seem to be his father’s son….

It was perhaps best not to think of that at the moment.

“Arthur,” Guinevere said after taking a sip of wine, “have you at least thanked him?”

There was no sense in pretending he didn’t know what she was talking about. “No,” he said. At her look, he hastily added, “Not yet.”

“But you will.”

He _should_ , most likely, but will? 

Arthur sighed. “In time,” he said grudgingly. He wasn’t ready to say that yet. He wouldn’t entirely mean it yet. Perhaps Gwen suspected that, for she didn’t press the subject.

“Will you thank him for me, then, if you’ll not tell me who it is so I may do so myself?”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his chair and stabbed at his venison. “I do not think he’d be happy if I revealed him to anyone else at present. Even to you. I suspect he’d rather do so himself if that is his intention.”

“You needn’t sound so bitter.”

“It’s…a complex matter,” Arthur said. “You don’t know all the details. You don’t understand.” He quickly took a bite of meat so he wouldn’t have to explain himself.

The tactic didn’t entirely work. “I’m not asking you to tell me everything,” Gwen said frankly. “Perhaps I don’t understand, and perhaps you cannot explain enough so that I will. But you’ve told me a little, Arthur, and surely that’s enough to let me help you through this.”

“Guinevere….”

“To be honest, I expected you to confide in Merlin,” she confessed. “But either he’s a far better actor than either of us ever realized or you’ve succeeded in keeping him in the dark as well.”

It was painfully the former case, but Arthur couldn’t admit that to Gwen.

“But since you aren’t letting him help you, then I would hope that you’d let me,” Gwen continued, her words making it clear to him that she completely dismissed the former possibility as easily as he once had. She reached out and caught his hand. “You don’t have to do this alone. You shouldn’t have to.”

“You don’t understand,” Arthur repeated.

“Then help me to understand, even if it’s only a tiny piece of the whole picture.”

If Arthur had had any appetite when the food had arrived, it was gone now. “I don’t know how.”

“It’s simpler than you think,” Gwen said, giving him an encouraging smile. “You just need to tell me a few other things. How you discovered Emrys, perhaps, or why he finally revealed himself to you. If those are too close to the subject of who he is, then tell me why you’ve chosen not to reveal him. Tell me what you’re going to do with this knowledge. Just tell me what you’re thinking.”

Most of Arthur’s thoughts were still catching on _Merlin’s a sorcerer!_ , and he wasn’t about to tell Gwen that.

“I thought it best if….” Arthur faltered, and Gwen squeezed his hand, letting him know that he could take all the time he needed and she’d always be willing to listen. “Given his past actions, I couldn’t…. I don’t want to just call him out. It hardly seems….”

“You didn’t want to see him pay for his crimes as the laws demand,” Gwen observed. He’d told her as much before, but the strength of which he felt that was evident in his actions. Or, more accurately, his _lack_ of action. “Then why can you not thank him or at least thank him on my behalf?”

“I’m sure he knows how you feel,” Arthur said, knowing Merlin was quite close enough to both of them to know how they felt. “But I simply…. You know my position. It is more precarious than yours. I can’t just….”

“You’re King Arthur of Camelot,” Gwen countered. “You _can_.”

Arthur shook his head. “Gwen, you know as well as I do that that’s not true.”

“You’ve broken conventions before.”

“This is beyond _breaking conventions_. This is _sorcery_. _Magic_. In my own kingdom. There is not one person who has been left untouched by it.”

He knew what she was hinting at, of course. It was the same thing Merlin had told him he could do. Except he _couldn’t_. 

Perhaps Guinevere felt Merlin’s actions meant Emrys would never turn on them. He dearly hoped she was right. But even if he took a great risk and revealed what ‘Emrys’ had been doing for them to the knights and the councillors, if not the people at large, he may be hard pressed to prove that he wasn’t just jumping to conclusions—or made to believe them by one enchantment or another. Not without producing the sorcerer in question, at which point—

Even proposing change wouldn’t be easy, something Merlin clearly didn’t appreciate and Gwen didn’t seem to fully understand, despite her experience.

But changing the laws was really the only way to properly thank Merlin. To show that he meant it. So Merlin didn’t have to hide any longer and so he could get the praise he really did deserve. So he didn’t have the threats of death or banishment hanging over his head.

The threats Arthur might be forced to hand out if anyone else saw through the thin illusion he was struggling to maintain and their façade of normalcy shattered forever.

Guinevere squeezed his hand one last time before releasing it. “Just remember,” she said quietly, “that not everyone touched by it has been harmed by it.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed the slight rating change. This is in preparation for future chapters which I believe will make this story a bit darker than its predecessor, so I'm playing it safe.

Today was the first day the dragon had flown any distance since their escape. The hobbling takeoff was not entirely a thing of the past, nor was the hard landing, but she had adjusted and was able to stay easily in the air. She could ride the air currents, glide relatively smoothly and execute hairpin turns or sudden drops without losing control and crashing. It wasn’t as graceful a flight as befitted her, but she was still quick, silent, and deadly. It hardly seemed like any time at all before she’d returned with a deer she’d felled. 

She let the dragon keep the entirety of her kill. The beast was weaker than she, having suffered greater pain, and she deserved more than just praise for her feat. She would need her strength for the tasks ahead of them. 

They couldn’t move quite yet. Everything was not in place—she’d had two years to plan, not two years to get everything in order—and she knew the dangers of acting in haste. She would bide her time and wait until they both had their strength up. Arthur’s search for Emrys would come to naught, she knew. The man was not foolish enough to be caught by Camelot’s ungrateful king. If he were so easy to uncover, she would have found him ages ago.

Her lack of success was not for lack of trying.

But _Arthur_ ’s lack of success…. It would not be so difficult to turn that in her favour.

If she was careful, she could lay the final pieces in place herself. This search of Arthur’s…. It was as if he were playing right into her hands. She could give him just enough of the truth to trip him up, and while he was distracted, she could strike. 

So perhaps she wouldn’t be waiting much longer after all.

She picked the quail she was cooking off the spit. It was cooked far better than her first attempt had been so many years ago. She had learned much in her time away from Uther—and even more in her exile. 

A bit of magic helped, too—especially considering how much work it was to get a meal out of the bird. Rabbits were at least worth the trouble cleaning took. But she was an excellent huntress; tracking down animals was an art at which she excelled, and she was far from unused to the harshness of the wilderness.

Some might say she’d become harsher and wilder herself, but the truth was that she had never been herself before. Before, she’d been denying who she truly was. Now, she was not. She’d found herself.

And she was stronger for that.

Even if her nightmares had come back with a vengeance, and not all of them offered only glimpses of the future.

“I’ll lay the groundwork tomorrow,” she promised as the dragon which, having blooded her kill and torn into its flesh, had raised her head to look at her companion. “You can rest here. I’ll not fail in this.” Her lips quirked into a smile. “Arthur will never suspect a thing.”

-|-

Merlin ran into Gwen just outside Arthur’s chambers. The guards remained banished to posts farther down the hall, which was just as well with Merlin. It meant any conversations with Arthur were less likely to be overheard. Besides, Arthur was jumpy enough that he was liable to take off the heads of any unexpected guests anyway. 

“You did it,” Merlin said, grinning. He’d meant to speak to Gwen before this but had never gotten the chance. If he wasn’t running around doing what Arthur needed done but had forgotten to tell him (or anyone else) to do or doing Gaius’s rounds, he’d inevitably been ensnared in conversation with gossiping castle staff. Arthur’s announcement this morning was all the servants could talk about. Given his proximity to the king, people thought he might know more than the rest of them.

He did, of course, but he was more than used to pretending he didn’t.

He’d caught Gwaine’s eye, too, and knew he’d be happily collecting his winnings from the rest of the knights. Knowing Gwaine, that’s what he was doing right now. If he hadn’t already finished and was out celebrating at the tavern, since he wasn’t on patrol tomorrow.

Gwen looked like she had to fight off a frown before she could return his smile. “He’s still unsettled,” she said delicately.

Merlin could translate that readily enough. “You want me to straighten things up in your chambers when I’m finished here, or—?”

Gwen was shaking her head. “I can do it myself. You look like you’re being run off your feet.”

“It’s no trouble,” Merlin said. It wasn’t, really, but it would take time, time he didn’t really have, and they both knew it.

Gwen’s smile was genuine this time, if a bit small. “I’ll be fine. Thank you, Merlin.” She put a hand on his arm. “Just don’t be too hard on yourself, all right?”

“Course not,” Merlin said, a bit too brightly to be entirely believed. But that didn’t matter, really. Gwen would assume that he’d be worried anyway and that, if Arthur’s mood didn’t improve, he _would_ take some of the blame for that on himself. Just like she did. Because, prat or not, they cared for him. 

Because they were supposed to be friends.

“Merlin,” Gwen started, “it’s more than….” She trailed off, biting her lip. In the next moment, she’d snagged his wrist and was dragging him into her chambers. She barred the door behind them, and Merlin raised an eyebrow. Gwen flushed. “You can’t tell anyone, all right?”

Merlin stared at her for a moment. How much had Arthur told her? It clearly wasn’t everything—she wouldn’t be poised to tell _him_ if it were everything—but she had to know something.

He supposed it meant a lot that she was willing to share something this important with him. Then again, when Gwen had found out about Morgana’s magic, she’d told Gaius, and he’d known about her and Arthur. She’d told them both about the Stone of Æthelu.

He _meant_ to say something like, _“I won’t breathe a word. I promise.”_ What came out of his mouth was, “Not even Gaius?”

Guinevere gave him a pained look. “Not even Gaius. Not yet. Please, Merlin. Do you swear it?”

“I swear,” Merlin vowed.

He wouldn’t tell Gaius.

But by all rights, Gaius already knew, so Merlin could still talk about this _with_ him without breaking his oath to Gwen.

Unless she happened to say something he didn’t already know, which was really quite doubtful at this point.

Gwen was fiddling with the hem of her sleeve, no doubt feeling a need to keep her hands busy as she often did when she was worried—and nervous. “Arthur found Emrys,” Gwen blurted out. “I don’t know how. It might have been the other way around. But he knows who he is. Where he is. He hasn’t breathed a word to anyone else, Merlin. I’m lucky he told me as much as he did, and I thought he would have told you, too. He doesn’t….”

“He doesn’t always tell you everything,” Merlin finished quietly, “because he doesn’t want to worry you.”

Gwen nodded. “I really shouldn’t be telling you if he hasn’t, Merlin, but…but I have to talk to someone, and Arthur—” She broke off, shaking her head. “I feel like I’d be better able to help Arthur through this if he’d just tell me who Emrys is so that I can talk to the man myself.” 

His life was full of secrets and irony. “Gwen, you don’t know that that would help.”

“Maybe not,” she allowed, “but the very least I could do is thank him. I…I was going to ask you earlier, Merlin, if you knew who he was so I could do just that, but then I realized you didn’t know, and….”

“Gwen,” Merlin said. He reached out to rescue her sleeve. She’d picked out a thread and was beginning to pull out the seam. She was a good seamstress, and he was sure that someone else would be fixing up her dress anyway, but that wasn’t the point. “I’m sure Emrys knows.”

Gwen sighed. “Arthur said much the same. But it doesn’t matter if he already knows; the point is that we should still say it.” She gave him a wry smile. “Knowing you’ve done a good job and that it’s appreciated is quite different from hearing it, isn’t it?”

Merlin thought about how many times Arthur had ever told him he’d done well. 

He imagined Gwen had heard it from Morgana a good deal more often, however rarely that would have been.

“Suppose so,” Merlin agreed. 

Deprived now of her sleeve, Gwen began knitting her fingers together. “Arthur found him before you even left,” she confided, resuming her tale. “He’s been keeping up this pretence in an effort to protect Emrys, but I fear….” She bit her lip again. “The truth weighs on him,” she said quietly. “He won’t speak of it to me, but I thought, now that you’re back, he might confide in you.”

“I doubt that,” Merlin muttered, thinking the last thing Arthur wanted to do was to talk to him. 

“Just…tell him you’ve figured out what he’s up to,” Gwen said. Merlin raised his eyebrows; it wasn’t often he heard her encouraging someone to lie when it wasn’t a matter of life or death. “I rather thought you might have already,” she said defensively, “but if you don’t think he’ll believe you, then go ahead and tell him that I told you. It might bring him to his senses. If there’s anyone he trusts besides me, it’s you.”

The words were painful to hear—most likely because Merlin wished they were still true, and he knew they weren’t.

He wondered how long it would take for observant people like Gwen, who knew both of them well, to realize Arthur’s trust in him was a thing of the past.

He also wondered how long it would take Gwen and everyone else to realize precisely _why_ that was.

“Arthur doesn’t trust anyone with matters of magic,” Merlin finally forced out. “Maybe Gaius, but….” He shrugged. “He certainly doesn’t think I can keep a secret.” That wasn’t _quite_ true, but Merlin had shamelessly let slip some of Arthur’s more embarrassing secrets to the knights on more than one occasion, and Arthur had not forgotten a single instance.

“But you can,” Gwen said. The conviction in her voice made Merlin’s heart freeze until he remembered there was no way she knew the truth. Not yet. “I know you can. You’re much better at it than Arthur gives you credit for.”

“I’m much better at a lot of things than Arthur gives me credit for,” Merlin returned, the words rolling more easily off his tongue now. “And I won’t tell anyone, Gwen, I promise, but I don’t think my knowing will make things any easier on Arthur.”

Gwen’s broad smile made it clear that she didn’t believe that for a moment. “I’m sure he’ll tell you more than he’s telling me,” she said, “once he knows that you know. Arthur relies on the people around him, and you’ve been closer to him for longer than I. If he’s going to talk to anyone, it’ll be you.”

Merlin really wished that had never changed.

A week ago, that had been perfectly true. Arthur had used him as a (sometimes rather ineffective) sounding board. He’d kept Merlin up-to-date, telling him things he had yet to tell anyone else—even Gwen, for she certainly wasn’t wrong about Arthur keeping things from her. He’d complained freely. He’d lain out his theories. As per usual, he’d dismissed Merlin’s opinions and observances.

But the familiarity of the past—friendly banter, teasing remarks, the lot—was conspicuously absent now.

Arthur clearly felt uncomfortable around him, and Merlin couldn’t figure out how to change that.

Talking wouldn’t work if Arthur wouldn’t listen.

“You do realize this is the same Arthur who spent a good chunk of the last week holed up in his chambers, not talking to anyone, right?”

Gwen laughed. “Just…see if he’ll say something to you. I’m not asking you to repeat it to me. I’d thought about it, but I can’t. I don’t wish to betray Arthur’s trust any more than I already have. But, Merlin, if Arthur does tell you who Emrys is….”

“Yes?” Merlin prompted.

“Thank him for me, will you?”

Merlin smiled. “Consider it done.”

-|-

“I can’t believe you won,” Elyan complained, handing over a part of his pay to Gwaine with obvious reluctance. Considering he and Percival had only just heard the news, it was understandable that Elyan would find it all the more unbelievable. He hadn’t heard what Arthur had said. 

Besides, since he and Percival had had their patrol cut short, Leon couldn’t really fault his good-natured complaints. The knights who had ridden out to bring them the news had gone to replace them, as Arthur had requested—privately, of course—that they remain at the castle for the time being. And they all knew that meant the king suspected trouble in one form or another and he wanted the people he trusted most close to him.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the other knights quite so much; it was more that they’d been through more together and they understood each other better and could work as a team more effectively and efficiently than they could with some of the others.

Particularly with the greenest knights who still lacked battle experience, who had been the replacements.

“You shouldn’t have gambled if you didn’t want to risk losing,” Leon pointed out. He wasn’t entirely surprised, however. Gwaine had a knack for winning bets—even when he didn’t cheat.

“Better luck next time,” Gwaine said, pocketing his winnings with a flourish. Then, catching sight of the largest member of their group, he called out, “Oi! Percival!” and began making his way towards his old friend to collect his due.

Truthfully, Leon still wasn’t sure _why_ Gwaine had won. While he suspected Guinevere—who had begun to look increasingly harried herself over the last little while—had talked to Arthur, he hadn’t thought that Arthur would listen in this regard. Arthur was stubborn, and Leon had never known him to give up on something.

Not until now.

Leon had known Arthur longer than any of the other knights, but even he couldn’t profess to know Arthur _well_. Not well enough to know what Arthur was really thinking, at least. If anyone would be able to accurately guess the king’s thoughts, it would be Merlin or Gwen.

Considering all three seemed a bit more uneasy than usual, he was certain that something had happened. Arthur wasn’t just calling off the search for Emrys because he felt he would never find the man. There was some other reason that he had decided against sharing with the general public. Leon could respect Arthur’s judgement; he certainly did not need to know everything that went on in the kingdom, not like the king himself did, and sometimes not knowing was better. 

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t curious, even if he had enough respect for Arthur not to press the subject. 

It could be that Arthur was wary of another kingdom preparing to take advantage of Camelot’s strained resources. It could a tactical move, with Arthur betting he would have better luck searching if he appeared to give up looking in the first place—in hopes of catching this Emrys unaware, if nothing else. The entire search could have been a diversion for something else. 

Or perhaps Arthur had managed to find what—who—he was looking for after all.

With rumours of another sighting of Dragoon, Leon couldn’t help but speculate that the old sorcerer they could never find would have the information the king sought.

Leon wasn’t sure what the price of that information would have been, but perhaps this was it: the end of the search, at least as far as appearances were concerned.

However, he wasn’t about to ask. Not while everything still appeared to be under control. If Arthur decided to confide in him—in _any_ of them—then he would happily hear him out and do his utmost to help. Until then….

Until then, he’d do what he always did. He’d wait. He’d train and prepare. He’d be ready to protect Camelot at a moment’s notice.

Seeing as he was lucky to get even that, he always had to be ready.

He just hoped the threat, assuming Arthur had uncovered one, wasn’t brewing inside their borders again.

-|-

Arthur was trying to figure out if he was moving too quickly or not quickly enough.

He could count the people who knew—or at least suspected—the truth about Emrys on one hand. 

But there were only three people who knew the truth about _Merlin_ , and he desperately needed to keep it that way. For all of their sakes. Merlin was…. Merlin was Merlin. He was practically a staple of castle life. To rip him away would leave an ill-concealed wound, and they’d be more vulnerable to attack. No matter how they steeled themselves, they’d be harder pressed to withstand a long fight without sustaining greater injuries.

A few seconds of distraction were too much, and emotional heartache could only be put off for so long.

He wasn’t expecting any attack, of course. No more than usual. It was just…. This situation had him on edge. However he tried to ignore it, however determinedly he pushed it out of his mind, however long it was blessedly _gone_ , it always came back with a vengeance.

He would rather it not hit him in full when his attention needed to be otherwise occupied.

The logical solution, of course, would be to do what was necessary to alleviate Merlin’s need to hide. But Arthur still wasn’t sure he _could_. Perhaps…. All right, perhaps Merlin was the exception to the rule, but sometimes it was better to sacrifice the one to save the many.

And yet sometimes it only took the one to save the many.

Arthur had no doubt Merlin was a better authority on magic than he’d ever let on, so the observances he had let slip wouldn’t be unfounded. But that didn’t mean they weren’t biased. Of course Merlin would support him doing away with Camelot’s laws against sorcery. He was a sorcerer. Warlock. _Magic-user_.

But the more Arthur thought about it, the less he could deny Merlin’s value.

It seemed callous to think it, but it was true.

That didn’t make Merlin seem any less like Merlin, though, when he thought of it like that.

Arthur’s teeth clenched. He was torn between protecting a friend and upholding the law where a stranger was concerned, and he was finding it very hard not to let his emotions interfere with his judgement. 

He also couldn’t help but remember that he no longer could be confident that all of his knowledge on the subject was true, which only made everything worse.

But if he _did_ throw caution to the wind, if he _did_ trust Merlin…. What if everything became indescribably worse? What if Merlin was wrong—and Arthur knew Merlin well enough to know that he could very well be wrong, for that certainly wouldn’t have changed—and the laws _did_ protect Camelot more than they invited harm? 

Merlin might be the powerful sor— _warlock_ —Emrys, but unless Merlin regaled him with tales of his ingenious strategy (which would take a fair bit of convincing on Merlin’s part for Arthur to believe that of him), Arthur couldn’t be confident that he’d be able to help them withstand an attack from multiple fronts.

He’d certainly be hard pressed to do that if he was still trying to keep his magic a secret, but if he _wasn’t_ trying to keep it a secret, then Arthur would have to deal with the turning tides within. The fallout from such an announcement….

It was the same thing he could face if he tried to change the law without due reason. 

It could destroy either of them as surely as a sorcerer’s spell.

This wasn’t easy. He knew that. He’d never expected it to be easy. Well, he’d never expected it in the first place, but now that he knew, he knew better than to think anything that came from here on out would be easy. This wasn’t a bard’s tale where everything would work out at just the last moment against all odds. _Bad_ always came with _good_.

His mixed feelings about this entire situation were proof enough of that point.

The knock at the door jarred Arthur from his thoughts. When the door opened before he’d given leave to enter, he knew who it was.

“I don’t wish to speak with you, Merlin,” he said, fixing his gaze on the parchment in front of him. It was the agenda for the council meeting tomorrow—and what was really meant to be occupying his attention instead of this other matter.

A beat of silence, then a weak, “I know. But I…. I brought you this.” 

Arthur looked up, and Merlin carefully laid an amulet in front of him. Arthur glanced at it, then up at Merlin again, wished he’d never looked at his manservant, and went back to studying the amulet. It looked…almost familiar. “What is it?”

Silence again—though Arthur could have sworn he’d heard Merlin swallow. Finally, “Morgana’s last gift to your father.”

_No._ “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“It’s how Morgana ensured the healing magic would be reversed.”

He _really_ didn’t want to talk about this. “Take it away, Merlin.”

Merlin, at least, was obedient enough to scoop the amulet up and out of his sight. Arthur forced himself to meet Merlin’s gaze, and Merlin said, “You should still talk with Gaius, Arthur, but it’s…. It’s the only thing I can offer you as proof that I’m not…. That I didn’t mean it. Since my word’s no longer enough.”

The words stung, more so because they were true than anything else, and Arthur felt terrible that he’d forced Merlin to admit them. “We can discuss this at a later time.”

Merlin didn’t take the hint, for all that it had been as subtle as the troll in the castle had been to the unenchanted eye. “We can’t put it off forever, Arthur. We need to talk.”

“We can talk later,” Arthur ground out. “You’re dismissed, Merlin.”

But Merlin, being the idiot he was, held his ground. “I’m not just asking for myself, Arthur. I’m asking for _you_. Because you need to talk to someone.” He paused, then added, “Gwen told me the big secret, you know. Because she thought you were too pigheaded to tell me yourself, too worried about worrying _her_ to tell her any more, and too much of a prat to realize that you need to talk to someone.”

The news about Guinevere somehow didn’t wholly surprise him.

Perhaps it might feel more like a betrayal if she hadn’t managed to tell someone who already knew the truth, but as it was…. 

As it was, it was a painful reminder that Merlin _was_ his usual confidant, and he _was_ struggling to sort through this without him.

How Gwen seemed to know what he needed better than he did himself, he’d never know.

Arthur closed his eyes and sighed. “Just give me the night to think, Merlin. I’ll speak with you in the morning, if only to appease Guinevere. I don’t need her asking more questions.”

“Arthur, you’ve had days.”

Arthur wrenched his gaze up to look at Merlin again. “You’ve had _years_ ,” he shot back. Merlin flinched, and Arthur made an effort to rein in his temper. In a tight, controlled voice, he said, “Bring a bit more food with you than you usually do, and you can break your fast with me. That should give you plenty of time to talk.”

“Arthur—”

It was, no doubt, the same protest worded a different way—or perhaps a pointed remark about how they _both_ needed to talk, since their communication had been stilted at best as of late. But Arthur was in no mood to hear whatever Merlin was going to say, so he cut across the words with a short, “You’re dismissed.”

Merlin stood there for a moment longer, looking at him, and just when Arthur thought he’d try protesting again, he said, “Yes, sire,” and walked out of the room.


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur still wasn’t ready for Merlin when he entered the next morning, carefully setting the larger-than-normal breakfast (coming from Merlin, anyway, if not George) upon the table. Oh, he was awake and rather crudely dressed, for he’d spent half the night pacing his chambers again, but that didn’t mean he was ready to face his magic-wielding manservant.

“Your tunic’s on inside out,” Merlin said as he picked up a small loaf of bread from Arthur’s plate.

Arthur rolled his eyes but yanked the offending piece of clothing off and set about turning it the right way out. “Happy?” he asked once he’d struggled into it again.

Merlin shrugged. “You still look silly, but you can’t really change your face, now can you?”

Arthur scowled and pointed at the chest at the foot of his bed. “Sit,” he growled, unsure of what bothered him more—the achingly familiar but completely uncalled for barb from Merlin or the disturbing knowledge that _he_ could change _his_ face.

Merlin sat, nibbling on the corner of his bread as he did. Arthur snatched something off his plate and turned his chair to face Merlin before sitting down himself. “Now talk,” Arthur commanded.

“I’m not one of your dogs,” Merlin complained. “It wouldn’t kill you to treat me a _bit_ better, you know.”

For a split second, Arthur found himself trying to figure out if Merlin had buried a threat in that last statement.

Then he realized what he was doing and forced himself to remember that this wasn’t just any sorcerer sitting across from him, it was _Merlin_. Merlin, arguably, had had much better opportunities to kill him and subsequently overtake or destroy Camelot. Since he seemed to devote so much effort (if Arthur could say Merlin put effort into anything besides keeping such a large part of himself a secret) to _protecting_ it, assuming Merlin and Gaius could be believed, then Arthur really shouldn’t fear him.

Logically, he knew it.

But logic was having a hard time standing up to the part of him that still quailed at the thought of _sorcery_. Particularly _powerful_ sorcery.

But this was just Merlin, and he needed to remember that.

Merlin hadn’t turned against him yet.

At the moment, his loyalties still lay with Arthur.

And Arthur needed to make sure that didn’t change.

He’d never have a hope of standing up against both Morgana _and_ Merlin. Even if they didn’t stand united, he doubted he’d have much success fighting them separately. Especially when both knew him and Camelot so very well, enabling them to anticipate his actions and stripping him of the advantage of knowing the ground better than his opponent.

“Just….” Arthur closed his eyes. “Just tell me why you think this will work.”

“Why I think what will work?”

Arthur opened his eyes to glare at Merlin. “Any of this. All of it. You staying here. Keeping your _magic_ a secret. Me hearing everything you have to say as if knowing everything you’ve kept from me all these years means it doesn’t matter that I didn’t know then because I know now. As if convincing me to go against my father’s wishes, against everything I was taught—”

“Arthur,” Merlin interrupted, “you said you needed to know what was going on. You said you needed to understand what goes on in your kingdom. Even in Camelot, magic is here. And you don’t understand it. That’s why you fear it. But you don’t _need_ to, and I can help you so you don’t. You just have to trust me.”

“But that’s just it,” Arthur argued. “I _can’t_.” They’d been through this already.

Merlin, apparently, wasn’t happy with the verdict. “I know you don’t trust anything to do with magic,” he said softly, “and I know you don’t trust me any more, but you did once. I’m asking you to do it again. If you don’t….”

Merlin didn’t finish, but he didn’t need to. Arthur knew the implications. If he couldn’t bring himself to trust Merlin, he’d have to act against him. This truce they’d drawn had done nothing to change that. It had merely extended the time he had to make a decision. But since Merlin wasn’t going to take a stand against him, the decision rested with Arthur alone.

It was no easier to make now than it had been the last time he’d faced it.

But he didn’t shy away from things simply because they weren’t easy.

“Do you have a plan, then?” Arthur asked, desperate to buy a bit more time but controlled enough that none of that desperation showed in his voice.

In his eyes, perhaps, but not his voice. If it did, Merlin wisely chose not to comment upon it.

“Not a plan, exactly,” Merlin admitted. “But if you started dropping hints about change—testing the waters, if you will—then that ought to clear the way for change in the future.”

“And what of Morgana? No one will wish to clear the way for acceptance of her.”

“Morgana has abused her power,” Merlin replied quietly. “She has twisted it for her own purposes as surely as her own fear and sense of revenge have twisted her. Her magic has been ill-used, and her crimes would still stand even if magic does become accepted here.”

“She’d argue.”

“She’d lose,” Merlin said bluntly. “You know as well as I that Morgana would not waste her breath arguing. She would fight, and I would make sure she would lose.”

There was something in Merlin’s tone that truly unsettled Arthur, and he realized it was the cold assurance in Merlin’s voice. The confidence. The power. 

The reminder that Merlin, despite all appearances, was not someone to make an enemy of.

“Besides,” Merlin added, his voice losing its alarming note, “acceptance here could be different than acceptance in other kingdoms. You don’t need to ignore magic and its users, just letting them be. You can encourage them. Get them to help. A little bit of magic in every day use can do much more good than harm, and people can pitch in in whatever way they’re best at if you take the time to get to know them and make sure they know their efforts are not unappreciated.”

Arthur wasn’t a fool. He knew what Merlin was hinting at. Magic could be used to heal. It could be used to coax the crops along during a drought or save a home from being consumed by flames. It could be used to make little tasks more efficient, aiding in scouring floors or starting fires. 

But what worried Arthur most about all of that was the cost.

Magic seemed to exist with a sort of balance. When Morgana had torn open the veil and released the Dorocha, it had cost Lancelot his life to correct it. While small acts of magic might go unnoticed in the larger scheme of things, anything substantial would carry a price, and not all might be taken at the time of the spell’s casting or be paid by the caster.

He’d endangered his people before in his ignorance—more than just the time he’d slain a unicorn if Merlin was to be believed—and he had no wish to do so again.

“But you also,” Merlin continued, blithely unaware of Arthur’s tumultuous thoughts, “don’t need to call them to you, amassing an army of sorcerers or anything like that. Some people think that having the most powerful sorcerers on their side means that they are untouchable. That no one will argue with them because they’ll be next to invincible. But they’re wrong, Arthur. Greed, fear…. Magic shouldn’t be used that way. It’s not meant to make someone powerful or keep them that way. It’s meant to help.”

Arthur grunted. “I’m not the only one who needs to be convinced of that.”

Merlin grinned. “No, but if you can finally see the truth of it, no one else matters.”

_Yes, they do. They_ all _do._ But Merlin really should know that. Arthur was always trying to do what was best for the people and trying to keep their opinions in mind. He still had to make whichever decision was best for the kingdom—he always did—even if that decision did not appear, on the surface, to be wholly fair. 

Like now.

“Merlin—”

Merlin must have been able to read his tone, because he quickly cut across Arthur’s words, saying, “I’m not asking you to walk into a council meeting and announce that you’re repealing everything you’ve spent your life upholding. I just…. You’re not your father, Arthur, and if change _is_ going to come under your reign, it’ll be smoother if you, well, show people that you’re open to this. Give them some time to get used to the idea.”

Arthur knew what Merlin was, for once, polite enough not to say: _It’s taking you long enough._ And he couldn’t exactly deny that. He still _wasn’t_ used to the idea. He still wasn’t entirely sure what Morgana was up to, and that worried him. Yes, he’d heard rumours. They’d all heard rumours. But some of those rumours were conflicting, and he hadn’t been able to verify or dismiss all of them.

And he couldn’t pretend he was comfortable with anything that could be seen as even remotely supporting Morgana when he knew the vision she held for Camelot and how much his kingdom would suffer under her rule.

“I can’t make you any promises, Merlin,” Arthur said, and he was forced to watch some of the hope fade from Merlin’s face at his words.

His manservant, however, nodded. “I know,” he admitted. “You’ll reach your own decision, and you’ll do what’s best. I know you will.” He offered Arthur a rather weak smile. “I trust you, even if you can no longer trust me.”

Arthur sucked in a quick breath. Merlin couldn’t have any concept of how much those words hurt him.

Why did they have to be true?

Arthur exhaled slowly and nodded once, sharply. Gesturing at Merlin’s bread, he said, “Finish that before you start anything else. I don’t need to find crumbs in my bed tonight, and I don’t need you to keel over because you haven’t been eating enough again.” He still remembered the first time that had happened, years and years ago. It had been after one of Merlin’s unannounced disappearances that had lasted longer than day—what he had then assumed was prompted by Merlin’s idiocy or tendency to frequent the tavern—and Arthur, seeing only a lazy, disobedient servant, had thrown Merlin in the stocks for the day and then set him more chores than he could possibly accomplish.

For a week.

By the end of the third day, even he had been able to tell that Merlin was off his game. He was obviously tired. He was as quick and thorough as usual, though, which meant Arthur hadn’t been sure he wasn’t just dragging his feet, since a bit of sloppy polishing or slow service wasn’t unheard of from his manservant. It was only once he’d collapsed and Gaius had given Arthur an earful (in private, thankfully) that Arthur had realized just how hard he’d pushed Merlin.

He’d pushed Merlin since, of course. It was Merlin. He had to be pushed. But Arthur had made a point of never pushing Merlin beyond his limits again.

Now that Arthur thought about it, though, Merlin couldn’t have been using magic to help with all his chores even if he had cheated and used it to help with a few. He wouldn’t have been so utterly exhausted, skipping meals and getting little if any sleep, if that had been the case. If he had been using magic, he could have finished his chores much more easily. In all probability, it had simply been too dangerous for Merlin to risk using magic where it might have been discovered and reported immediately to Uther.

The thought of what might have happened made Arthur feel sick.

The thought of what might still happen—what _should_ still happen—if anyone else discovered Merlin made him feel even worse.

But Merlin’s smile was stronger this time, and he seemed blissfully unaware of Arthur’s thoughts and simply grateful that Arthur had tried to treat him as he always had before. “Yes, sire,” he said cheerfully, taking a large bite of bread.

Arthur had no appetite, but he forced down a few bites himself. He’d need his strength today. “You can clear this away once you’re finished,” he said, waving at his plate. “I need to speak with Guinevere.”

Merlin bobbed his head and choked out another, “Yes, sire,” around his bread. Before Arthur was quite out the door, he saw Merlin reaching for an abandoned sausage, and he thought it just as well. Better him than the pigs, or whatever happened to the food he didn’t eat. 

Besides, Merlin’s hunger just made him seem more…real, and Arthur was grateful for that.

-|-

Gwaine finally caught Merlin alone when Merlin had gone to the armoury to fetch Arthur’s secondary swords for sharpening and polishing. In Gwaine’s opinion, he looked marginally more cheerful than he had the past couple of days, but he was sure something was wrong and he was determined to find out what it was.

He was Merlin’s friend. Even if he couldn’t help, he could listen and promise to keep things a secret, just as Merlin did for him.

“Arthur after you again to do his dirty work?” Gwaine asked as he grabbed the hilt of one of the swords in Merlin’s arms before the boy could trip and impale himself.

Merlin shifted his load and shrugged. “Just the usual.” He grinned. “You haven’t spent all your winnings, have you?”

“You care to join me as I try?”

Merlin shook his head. “I’ve still got some catching up to do. Apparently, Arthur didn’t let George do everything while I was away, so I’ve got the usual list that’s longer than my arm of things to get through. He seemed to think I would miss it or something.”

Merlin moved to leave—their middle-of-the-day conversations rarely lasted long when each of them had various duties to complete, and Gwaine figured Merlin would have to come back for more than just the sword he was holding—but Gwaine caught his arm. “Merlin, your mother is doing well, isn’t she?”

Merlin frowned, clearly confused about the cause for Gwaine’s concern. “Of course. I told you that already.”

“And what about you?”

“I’m fine,” Merlin replied immediately. “Why?”

“Because you haven’t been acting fine,” Gwaine pointed out. At Merlin’s expression, he added, “Merlin, I can tell. I’ve known you for years. You aren’t that good of an actor. Something’s happened.”

“It really hasn’t—”

“Merlin,” Gwaine repeated. “Since you got back, you and Arthur…. You two just haven’t been yourselves. You can’t fool your friends. If it isn’t something that happened in Ealdor that Arthur won’t let you go back to, then something’s happened here. Let _me_ help, if not everyone else. You know I’ll keep secrets for you if I have to. Just like you’ve kept mine.”

Merlin sighed. “I know,” he said. “But it’s not really anything at all. Just Arthur being Arthur.”

“And taking it out on you?”

Merlin grinned. “Like I said, Arthur’s just being Arthur.” He shrugged. “He might have officially dropped the search, but he hasn’t forgotten about it.”

Gwaine searched Merlin’s face, sure there was more to the story. Arthur’s frustration most likely _was_ part of it, but Merlin had looked…. He hadn’t quite looked _himself_ even after being away from Arthur’s demands, which certainly wasn’t what Gwaine had expected after a visit home. 

But unfortunately, Gwaine was fairly sure that if Merlin didn’t want to tell him, he’d never find out, no matter how much prying he did.

Still, he wasn’t one to stop without trying. “And what else is on your mind _besides_ Arthur being a prat?”

Merlin laughed. “Nothing,” he assured Gwaine, shifting his load to balance it across one arm so he could use the other to retrieve the sword Gwaine still held. “Really. And Gwen’s been talking to Arthur, so I doubt this’ll last long. She managed to convince Arthur to let me go back to Ealdor for a bit, so I’m sure she’ll get through to him again.”

Merlin meant for this to be the end of their conversation, and Gwaine knew it. “You know you can tell me anything,” he said.

Merlin’s grin returned. “And drag you anywhere,” he agreed, and Gwaine knew he was thinking of the time they’d ended up chasing after Arthur on his quest. “I know I can count on you if I need anything. I’ll let you know if Gwen’s not successful.”

Merlin counted on him more if he needed something _for Arthur_. To Gwaine’s knowledge, Merlin had asked for help of others for his _village_ , for his _king_ , but never for _himself_. He suspected Merlin confided in Gaius, but for all that Gwaine was sure they counted each other as good friends, Merlin had never truly confided in him. From what he understood from Leon, Merlin never really had and still didn’t seem to confide in any of them—not the knights, not Gwen, not even Arthur.

And Gwaine wasn’t sure he wanted to keep buying the story that nothing ever went horribly wrong in Merlin’s life to the point where he needed to lean on someone other than Gaius. 

But Merlin wasn’t giving him any other choice, unless he deliberately tried to pry into something when he clearly wasn’t wanted. Curious though he was, Gwaine didn’t want to risk his friendship with Merlin. Not yet. Not unless things seemed to escalate.

Fortunately, he _was_ awfully good at reading the situation and determining how quickly things were likely to go south. That skill had been honed from years of reading volatile tavern crowds. So if it looked like Merlin needed him, even if Merlin didn’t seem to think he needed him, he could be there.

Gwaine fixed an easy smile on his face and clapped Merlin on the back. “You do that,” he said.

-|-

Arthur hadn’t had time to say much to Guinevere before the meeting. He could, however, read the disappointment in her eyes. George stood in Merlin’s usual place, ready to attend to their every need, while Merlin was off doing…whatever he was doing. Arthur no longer felt comfortable assuming he knew what Merlin was up to.

To be honest, he was a bit surprised Merlin hadn’t turned up here anyway, but he was rather grateful for it. He would have felt obliged to say something then. Merlin may not have intended to pressure him into saying anything—particularly if he was doing nothing more than _looking_ at Arthur—but Arthur would have felt it nonetheless.

The trouble was, Arthur needed to decide whether or not he should _trust_ Merlin—not wholeheartedly, of course, but marginally, as a show of faith.

Faith he wasn’t entirely sure he had.

It was just… _magic_.

Did he really want to do _anything_ that would allow it more freedom?

Beneath the table, Guinevere’s hand found his and squeezed it gently. He wished he had her faith. She still didn’t know the whole story, but she felt she knew enough. She hadn’t lost as much to magic as he had, but she was far from free of the scars it left.

The difference was that she knew better than he the scars left behind by the fight against magic. He was uncomfortably aware of the unintentional slaughter of innocents. She was all too familiar with the plight of the falsely accused. 

If he was going to bring anything up, though, it had to be now—once they’d discussed all the major (and minor) issues in excruciating detail but before the subtle hints surfaced to indicate it was time to dismiss the meeting.

Arthur glanced at Gwen before taking a deep breath and saying, “There is one more issue I feel we should address.”

“My lord?”

The council looked at him expectantly. From the corner of his eye, he could see a small, encouraging smile on Guinevere’s face. He knew it would not be wiped clean by his next words, but he didn’t have the same assurance for the careful expressions of anyone else. “I believe it best if we take some precautions,” Arthur said carefully, “regarding the use of magic in Camelot.”

The oldest of his councilmen—and the finickiest of them all, in Arthur’s opinion—cleared his throat. “Sire,” he began, “I believe we are all in agreement that magic is _not_ to be used here?”

He’d expected this, but that didn’t make combating it any easier. “In most circumstances, I would not hesitate to agree with your assessment.”

“Then there are circumstances where you would find it allowable, my lord?”

“Under my father’s laws,” Arthur replied cautiously, “I would not discriminate. Magic is magic, black or no. But I made a promise some years ago, and I am bound to my word. The Druid people should be treated with respect. Magic is infused in their ways of life, and providing they do not use it with ill intent, I do not feel we should continue to persecute them within Camelot’s borders.”

Silence for a long moment. Finally, from another councilman, “And the precautions you spoke of, my lord?”

“Primarily, increasing the relations between our peoples. We must better understand them, and they us, if we are to keep a lasting peace.” _And keep any of them from siding with Morgana._ “I have no doubt they have a long list of grievances against the Pendragons which must be addressed. We will have to enter negotiations to come to fair settlements.”

“There will be those who will not forgive Camelot’s past actions, sire,” the eldest councilman observed. “If we show leniency, how can we ensure that they will not strike?”

_Hopefully, few will want to risk the wrath of Emrys._ But Arthur’s confidence in Merlin was still rather weak. He still couldn’t quite reconcile the idea of Merlin being a great sorcerer, for all that he couldn’t deny that Merlin had magic. “We can prepare for the possibility as best we can,” Arthur allowed, “but we cannot stop them from acting against us if that is their wish, and I do not intend to try. I do not want to encourage hostility.”

“You would see us in a vulnerable position, open to attack by those who would take advantage of our show of good faith, sire?”

Arthur gritted his teeth before forcing himself to relax. “I am aware of the position in which we would be placed, but I do not believe our actions would have any effect if we did otherwise.” In all likelihood, they’d be dismissed, scorned, thought a ploy…. 

Perhaps he could have Merlin talk to them, if he must, but he couldn’t afford not to be believed. If Morgana…. He needed to bolster the number of his supporters. He did not wish to use the Druids as a shield by any means; he merely did not want any more enemies than he already had.

He hoped _that_ much was not wishful thinking, though he knew enough not to be overly optimistic, given his past actions and that of his father.

“You propose we amend the laws, my lord?”

“I propose we consider it,” Arthur replied. “I do not intend to go back on my word; I will find a way to treat the Druids with the respect they deserve. However, I acknowledge that this may not be the best way, and we will discuss the matter further at our next meeting.”

There were murmurs of “Yes, sire,” and “Of course, my lord,” all around, and Arthur adjourned the meeting.

As everyone was filing out, Guinevere leaned in and whispered, “I’m proud of you,” before giving him a quick peck on the cheek, and the knot in Arthur’s stomach loosened slightly.

Perhaps he wouldn’t regret saying anything after all.

True, he had brought up nothing that would _specifically_ help—and protect—Merlin. But this was one way to test the waters, so to speak. He needed his people to be used to the idea that _he_ was still struggling with: that perhaps magic is not inherently evil but only as black as its user. The thought was still hard to believe when he remembered his happy years growing up with Morgana, but Merlin’s very presence was forcing him to consider the possible truth in the words.

Merlin was forcing him to consider and remember many things of late, not the least of it his promise to the spirit of the Druid boy. He should have taken action to see it better carried out years ago, yet he hadn’t. He’d needed to be spurred into action, reminded that he couldn’t put something off and continue to ignore it for a time because the prospect of change was unpleasant.

So perhaps the Stone with which the Druids had gifted him was not misplaced after all, seeing as it had done exactly what they had intended: fostered peace between them, granted them safety in his kingdom, and, unless he was very much mistaken, sparked the beginning of change—change which would benefit everyone.

Arthur dearly hoped he was not misreading the situation and that the time for change was indeed ripe.


	7. Chapter 7

She avoided everything with a reflective surface.

The magic was strong and perhaps a bit more draining on her body than she’d like, but she’d spent as much time gathering her strength as she could. The word in the market this morning was that the king was no longer searching for the one called Emrys, and she couldn’t afford to wait any longer. 

No one seemed to think Arthur had found Emrys—merely that he’d given up searching for him—but she wasn’t so sure.

It wasn’t like Arthur to give up without good reason, and a lack of success was not a good enough reason.

She was perhaps a bit more hesitant than she ought to be, thinking that Arthur may know of Emrys now, but if that _was_ the case, it would be best to act now. If she waited too long, Emrys might find a way to foil her plans before she even began laying them out. This way, she’d have the surprise of the initial strike.

If luck travelled with her, the effects would be enough that Arthur, even once he composed himself to call upon the help of Emrys, would be unable to counter her.

An uncomfortable amount of the plan’s degree of success hinged on Emrys not realizing her plans before it was too late for him to stop them, but as she’d had no trouble so far, it was perfectly possible that the sorcerer was getting complacent in his old age.

She tugged her hood forward a bit more and leaned heavily upon her walking stick. No one gave her a second glance, though many were kind enough to part so she could pass. Her progress was slow, her movements stilted from stiff joints, but nevertheless she made it to the castle in good time. 

It took a bit longer than she’d anticipated to state her case to the guards, but eventually she was escorted inside and left to wait—under guard, for clearly Arthur trusted no one these days, and rightly so—while it was determined whether or not the king would see her today.

When she was first informed that the earliest the king could possibly hear her was tomorrow, she drew herself up and said, “I must see him now. I have information about the one he seeks.”

The response was a polite, “You are mistaken. He seeks no one at present.”

She did not have time to convince the messenger otherwise. Instead, she said, “I also have information about a sorcerer within Camelot.”

The man’s eyes went wide, and in no time, she had his assurances that he would do his best to see that the king granted her an audience—for the sake of the safety of Camelot.

She thanked him and smiled, content—for now—to wait.

-|-

“A sorcerer?” Arthur repeated, willing himself not to cast a look at Merlin, who had reappeared sometime after the council meeting and now stood somewhere behind him with a pitcher of wine. Lunch had been delivered, and he’d been enjoying some quiet time with Guinevere before facing the pressures of the afternoon. And this…this was news he could have done without, though he’d rather hear it now than find out later the hard way. “Here? In Camelot?”

“That is the woman’s claim, my lord.”

He couldn’t afford not to look into this. Any sorcerer who made himself known—Merlin aside, as he wasn’t exactly _well_ known—tended to mean trouble. 

Arthur glanced instead at Guinevere, and she gave him a slight nod. She, too, felt that they could not leave this matter unattended. “I’ll see her immediately,” Arthur decided, getting to his feet. “Merlin, alert Gaius and the others and have them meet me in the throne room.”

“Yes, sire,” Merlin murmured, placing the pitcher on the table and bobbing his head at them before disappearing out a side entrance. 

Arthur turned his attention back to the man in front of him and said, “Tell her she’ll have the audience she seeks; I’ll send Merlin to fetch her once everyone is assembled.”

“As you wish, sire,” came the reverent reply, delivered in a much more believable tone than Merlin could ever muster.

When he was alone again with Gwen, Arthur said, “The timing of this is troubling.”

“Yet we can do nothing about that,” Gwen reminded him smartly. “It is not so unusual for a sorcerer to surface in Camelot, Arthur. Once we hear the woman’s tale, we can decide what actions we should take.”

“It is still worrisome.”

“And so it should be, if this sorcerer is no friend of ours.” Gwen put a hand on his arm. “There’s no use fretting before we even know if we are facing a problem. Come; let’s hear her out.”

Arthur wasn’t happy. This woman had, so far, given them little information. She had not given her name to the guards—for fear of retribution, she’d said—and he did not know from where she came. But he could not overlook a potential threat, particularly one as serious as this, even if its source seemed dubious. 

He’d heard out a number of ridiculous stories when he’d been searching for Emrys; he could stand to listen to one more citizen with an overactive imagination and a healthy fear of magic.

“Thank you, Guinevere,” Arthur said quietly as he got to his feet. She said nothing in response, but the small smile on her face told him volumes, and he was as happy as he had ever been that she stood by him. He needed her—especially when he could no longer wholly depend upon Merlin.

It did not take long for everyone to gather, and it seemed like no time at all before Merlin had returned with an elderly woman in tow. Arthur had kept the company small for her comfort. He could not fault her fearing the sorcerer’s retribution if word got out that she had been the one to reveal him to Camelot’s king. 

“It is safe to speak here,” Arthur said. “You may begin with your name.”

The woman before him curtsied again. “Bronwyn, my lord,” she murmured. 

“Bronwyn,” Arthur repeated. “You’ve heard tell of a sorcerer in Camelot?”

“A powerful man, sire,” she agreed. “Perhaps the most powerful Camelot has ever encountered.” She raised her eyes to look at him now. “And I’ve heard the most terrible rumour, my lord.”

Arthur’s stomach clenched. This was the last thing they needed. “Go on.”

“The people say you seek him yourself.”

Arthur fought to keep the surprise off his face. It became an easier task as realization hit and his surprise was replaced with dread. _Emrys_. She was talking about Emrys. About _Merlin_.

“The one they call Emrys,” Bronwyn continued. “The most powerful sorcerer to ever live, they say—and one which has made his home here in Camelot.”

Arthur didn’t need to look to picture the shocked faces of his knights, and he’d guess that Merlin looked paler than normal. He hadn’t wanted it to become common knowledge that Emrys was a sorcerer at all, let alone a powerful one. He could feign ignorance, of course, but it would seem strange that this old woman—who must have been talking to Druids to know so much of the truth—knew more than the king about the man he’d been searching for.

“Do you know his whereabouts?” Arthur asked quietly.

“Not his precise location, my lord,” Bronwyn replied with a dip of her head, “but I am told that he remains close to you. Closer, I would think, than any of us are comfortable with.”

Considering Merlin was not ten feet from him, Arthur couldn’t exactly deny Emrys’s closeness to Camelot’s king. “You’ll be happy to know that gossip remains as unreliable as ever,” Arthur replied steadily. “There is no sorcerer here.”

“You misunderstand me, my lord,” Bronwyn said bravely—and rather foolishly, for few dared to talk back to the king. “The rumour I heard was that you were seeking the sorcerer. That he is near you is something I fully believe to be true.”

Arthur was thinking he should never have granted Bronwyn an audience. “The notion is absurd. All of Camelot’s citizens know the laws against magic and the punishment for the crime of sorcery. No sorcerer would dare to remain nearby. What makes you so certain of this falsehood?”

“I beg your pardon, but it is no falsehood, sire,” Bronwyn said. “I have spoken with many people over the years, and the Druids have foretold the coming of the sorcerer Emrys—and his association with Camelot’s king.”

Elyan was mumbling something to Gwaine from the corner of his mouth, but Arthur had no idea what it might be. 

“If I might ask, my lord, have you found the one they call Emrys?”

Arthur took a measured breath. “No,” he replied curtly. “I appreciate your concern, madam, but I am neither seeking a sorcerer nor harbouring one. I did launch a search for this sorcerer, as you heard, but I have arrived at the conclusion that the tales of Emrys are little more substantial than the wind. He does not exist. If he once did, then he does no longer.”

He’d been expecting an argument out of Bronwyn by now, a protest that she was certain she had not brought him incorrect information, but she merely ducked her head deferentially. “As you say, sire. I am sorry to have disturbed you.”

“It is never a disturbance to hear the concerns of my citizens,” Arthur told her. “I appreciate your courage in coming forward.”

Bronwyn dipped into another low curtsey. “My thanks to you for seeing me, my lord.”

Arthur motioned with his hand, and Leon stepped up. “I’ll escort you to the lower town, madam,” he said, taking Bronwyn’s arm. She smiled gratefully, and in very little time, she and Leon were gone. Arthur, who could practically see the questions on the faces of the remaining knights, gestured for the guards to close the doors once again.

This was one council which should not be overheard.

“You sent us out looking for a sorcerer without telling us?” Gwaine demanded, dispensing, as always, of any sense of properness or social civility. Arthur opened his mouth to respond, but Gwaine cut across him, adding, “And don’t try to tell us you didn’t know, Arthur, because if that old crone could find out, you certainly could, too, with how hard you were looking.”

Just talking to Gwaine was giving him a headache. “You weren’t in any danger,” Arthur said.

“No danger?” It was Elyan this time, the disbelief painfully evident in his voice. “No danger from a powerful sorcerer?”

“No danger from a powerful sorcerer who has saved us all in the past,” Gwen said quietly, her words more effective at ending what had threatened to escalate into a fierce shouting match than anything Arthur could have said.

Elyan’s mouth snapped shut. Then, “You knew he’d sent us after a sorcerer?”

From his tone, Arthur guessed that Elyan had figured he’d told Gwen more than he had them—just not that. “Not at first,” Gwen said, having already crossed the floor to confront her brother. “But after, yes.” She placed a restraining hand on his arm. “It’s all right, Elyan. Trust me.”

Before Elyan—or Gwaine or Percival, for that matter—could recover his tongue, Arthur cleared his throat. He didn’t dare risk a glance at Merlin at this point, though he could see, from the corner of his eye, Gaius ready to interject if he needed to be rescued. “Emrys is Dragoon,” he said shortly. Immediately the knights began spewing protests, saying things about how Dragoon could not be trusted at all—and here Arthur _really_ had to concentrate on not looking at Merlin, as he certainly did not know the story behind this one and it was disheartening to think even the knights had kept something from him. 

Granted, from what he could gather, they’d had magic used against them in, if not an unpleasant way, then certainly an embarrassing one, if the clipped descriptions and indignation in their voices was anything to go by.

“Elyan.” Guinevere again, but that should be no surprise. Arthur had little doubt that she held more sway with her brother than he. “Dragoon—Emrys—has saved my life and Arthur’s and, I’ve little doubt, yours as well. We should be thankful.”

Gwaine seemed uneasy as he looked significantly at Arthur. “I’ve seen some good come of magic,” he admitted. “Small things, mostly. Percival and I both. But Dragoon….” 

“He said he was going to kill you, sire,” Percival finished. 

This time, Arthur _did_ risk a glance at Merlin, who had an apologetic smile on his face that was not helpful at all. Before Arthur could bring himself to say anything, Gwaine added, “I mean, you’re still here, so he didn’t succeed, but he did threaten you. Very clearly. And we….” He shrugged. “He’s a sorcerer. I expect you know what happened when we attacked him upon hearing that.”

“He used magic on you.” Arthur said, his voice sounding hollow. He was wondering why Merlin would _ever_ be so _stupid_ as to threaten him in front of the knights. 

Then again, Merlin was Merlin, and Merlin wasn’t exactly renowned for his moments of brilliance.

“It’s best if we leave it at that, but yes,” Elyan said, looking like he was successfully ignoring the concern written on Gwen’s face. At least that confirmed that the knights had kept that incident to themselves.

“Perhaps you were mistaken,” Gwen suggested, “about it being Dragoon.”

Gwaine snorted. “Hardly. He’s not exactly easy to forget. I’d recognize him anywhere.”

_Except when he’s right under your nose._ But Merlin’s disguise had fooled him until he’d finally figured out why Dragoon had always seemed so familiar.

He should have pieced it together earlier, though. Merlin wasn’t known for coming up with great names, either, and he’d pegged Dragoon as an alias fairly early on.

Arthur pressed his lips into a thin line. He could hardly attribute so many past happenings to Emrys without launching into a potentially lengthy discussion of how he knew Emrys was specifically behind them. Neither could he continue to blindly defend Emrys, even if he did cite what the Druids said about him. 

Granted, there was little harm in telling the knights what he had already told Guinevere, given what they’d heard from Bronwyn, and he trusted them all—and Leon, who could easily be filled in later by any one of the knights if not himself—to keep the information to themselves.

It might stop them from shooting significant looks at each other when they thought him not looking, if nothing else.

“Be that as it may,” Arthur said, “Emrys has done us more to help us than to hurt us.” Probably. “Bronwyn was not mistaken when she spoke of what the Druids say. Emrys is purported to be a powerful sorcerer, but he is an ally of Camelot even when she would stand against him.”

“And you find it better to lie to the lady, and until now to us, than to tell us the truth?” It was Percival again, in a quiet tone that revealed no judgement but merely a sort of sad resignation.

“If we wish to have the continued protection of Emrys,” Gaius said evenly, “then the fewer who know of him, the better.”

Gwaine’s eyes went wide, and he spun to look at Gaius and Merlin. No, not both of them. Just Merlin. “That’s what’s been bothering you,” he announced.

Merlin blinked. “Sorry?”

“You knew about Emrys and couldn’t tell us,” Gwaine elaborated. “Arthur told you before you left, didn’t he?” He stopped, realization dawning on his face, and said, with utter conviction, “That’s _why_ you left, isn’t it?”

“No. I gave Merlin leave because I….” Arthur hesitated and stole a look at Guinevere. “Because I was overworking him.”

Gwaine snorted. “You can’t expect any of us to believe that one. You overwork Merlin all the time. If you’re going to let him off instead of just easing up, it’s going to be for a better reason than that.” He turned back to Merlin. “Did Arthur have you _helping_ the old codger or something? Going to fetch something he needs? Is that why you were so insistent to get back and not stop and have a drink with me?”

Merlin hesitated. His eyes darted to Gaius, then briefly met Arthur’s, before he focused on Gwaine. “Arthur _was_ going to give me some time to visit Ealdor again and bring some supplies home, things that are harder to come by there. Gwen talked him into it. But Emrys….” Merlin forced a weak and completely unbelievable smile onto his face. His eyes flicked to Gwen, and he said, “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before, but yes. I knew before I left. Arthur practically kept me running after everything that resembled a clue; how could I _not_ have found out? But Gaius is right. The more the attention is focused on him, the less he can do to help.”

“Assuming he will help,” Elyan muttered, apparently unconvinced by their earlier testimonies.

Arthur didn’t blame any of the knights in the slightest for being rather reluctant to trust Emrys. Of course they’d be wary of a sorcerer. Not only has that same sorcerer proven his skill in his craft by moving in and out of the castle for _years_ and never burning for the magic he’s clearly been seen using, but he also threatened to kill their king.

A real threat, heard by their own ears, stands for more than seemingly empty proclamations of goodness and aid.

“He’ll help,” Arthur said, his tone making it clear that this wasn’t a point to be further argued. “But it will always be on his own terms, not ours.”

“What is the cost of his help?” Percival asked. “What does he ask of us in return?”

“Peace,” Arthur said, echoing Merlin’s words of long ago. “He asks that we do not persecute him or his kind.”

“So he’s manipulating you into changing the laws,” Elyan concluded.

“Elyan!” The exclamation came in addition to a jab from Gwen’s elbow. “You’ve travelled outside of Camelot just as I have. Just as Gwaine and Percival have. Don’t pretend you don’t know how it is in other kingdoms.”

“Where the person with the most powerful magic on his side can inspire the most fear into those who can’t hope to defend themselves?”

Before Gwen could open her mouth, Merlin said, “Just because that’s what it’s like in some of the other kingdoms, Cenred’s especially, doesn’t mean it has to be that way in Camelot. I’ve seen magic be used to help. It saved my village from being destroyed by Kanan when he attacked.”

“Oh, Merlin, I’m so sorry,” Gwen said. “I’d forgotten about your friend. Will, wasn’t it?” Merlin nodded, and she turned back to Elyan. “Merlin’s right. I saw it myself; so did Arthur. Will saved Ealdor, even knowing what Arthur would think of him for using magic, and Arthur saw him do it, too.”

“And then he took a bolt to save my life,” Arthur said quietly. “He was a noble man.”

“But that doesn’t mean we should trust someone who threatened you,” Elyan pointed out.

Arthur took a slow breath. “I know. I will have to speak to him about that the next time he seeks me out, as he remains hidden well enough that I cannot find him unless he wants me to. I….” Arthur hesitated. He couldn’t seem to spit out the words the situation called for: _I trust him, as should you_. Instead, he settled on, “I do not believe he means any of us harm, despite what he told you in the past. If you encounter him again, do as he asks, providing the request is not unreasonable.”

“You sound awfully convinced this sorcerer doesn’t want to off you,” Gwaine commented, “considering what you usually think of sorcerers. There something you aren’t telling us?”

Of course there was, and Gwaine knew it. They all probably did. He’d told them only a piece of the story, a piece they’d hopefully believe. Had it worked, he would have been more than willing to let them believe whatever half truths they’d concluded. 

It occurred to him that this was a tactic Merlin seemed to use often, his earlier spiel included.

But if _he’d_ learned anything from all the times he’d been duped and later discovered the truth, he knew that the best lies were wrapped in truths for the telling.

“As I’m sure you’ve surmised, Emrys has been by recently,” Arthur began carefully. “The first time, he presented me with a gift from the Druids, a magical artefact I was equal parts repulsed and intrigued by. It was a pendant said to allow its wearer to discern the true intentions of those around him.”

Silence.

Not oppressive, nor expectant, but flat, heavy. It was not laden with judgement but with a certain unquestioning acceptance of what had been done. There was not one person in the room who did not know him well enough to know what had happened next, that he had thrown caution into the wind and worn the Stone. 

“The tales were true,” Arthur continued, “and before I saw it locked up in the vaults, I questioned Emrys once more, as I had when he’d delivered the gift to me in the first place. He knew precisely what I was doing. I’ve little doubt that he could have avoided a confrontation at all if he’d cared to, but instead he allowed me to see what he truly believed he intended to do with me.” He paused. “Unlike every other sorcerer I recall ever encountering, he does not wish me dead—regardless of whatever he may have once said to you. He, like you, has a desire to protect me and to protect Camelot because he, like all of you, believes in me as a king. Until I have reason to believe that this has changed, I will not question his loyalty.”

A small part of Arthur was expecting someone—Elyan, perhaps, as he too had experienced the fear of sorcery Uther had instilled in all of Camelot’s citizens during his reign—to question why he was putting his trust in an object of magic, something inherently untrustworthy. The question, however, was never voiced. Everyone trusted his judgement and knew him well enough to know that if he were convinced of the truths the pendant revealed, he had found a way to test and prove them.

The notable lack of absurd change in his personality likely helped, although his defence of a sorcerer had already proven questionable enough.

“You are only to speak of these matters amongst ourselves, and only if you are absolutely certain you will not be overheard. Secrecy is imperative, for I fear we will be much more vulnerable once Emrys can no longer operate from the shadows.” Arthur waited to see nods all around before focusing on the knights. “See that Sir Leon is told,” he said, using Leon’s title to subtly emphasize that his next words were a decree rather than a suggestion. “I will entertain further questions at a later time, and you all have full permission to speak to me in private whenever necessary. I do not wish to arouse suspicion by keeping you all here longer than I already have.”

There were murmurs of, “Yes, sire,” all around, and the group broke up and headed out. Arthur hung back with Guinevere, intending to seek reassurance that the world had not entirely been turned on its head and that everything they depended upon was _not_ crumbling around them—assurance she always seemed able to provide, particularly now that he could no longer use Merlin to ground him. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know the whole truth; it mattered that she had a convincing, unwavering faith that everything would work out for the best. 

When Arthur saw Gwaine corral Merlin by the doors, however, he thought that he perhaps might need a bit more reassurance than usual.

But surely Gwaine was not looking for a second opinion on the entire situation as much as he was trying to eke a few more details about everything. Vocal and disrespectful as Gwaine could be, he was a loyal knight who trusted Arthur and his judgements and assessments. He was a faithful friend. He wouldn’t be listening to the same doubts that threatened to surface in Arthur’s mind whenever he thought of Merlin.

He wouldn’t be thinking _What is he not telling me?_ just yet, surely.

He wouldn’t be wondering how much his ignorance would cost him—cost all of them—in the end.

He wouldn’t be wondering if he’d find out the whole truth before it was too late.

He certainly wouldn’t think, even for a moment, that it was perhaps better not to know, if he _did_ dare to speculate on the cost of his knowledge.

Not Gwaine. Not yet. Not about Arthur.

But Arthur would be lying to himself if he said he’d managed to completely move past those thoughts when it came to Merlin.


	8. Chapter 8

“Gwaine,” Merlin said, very seriously, “Arthur already told you all I know.”

The look on the knight’s face told Merlin he didn’t buy it for a second and was hurt that Merlin thought he would. “I know you better than that,” Gwaine countered. “Look, rumours of Dragoon’s—Emrys’s—appearances here have been flying around the castle. I doubt there’s a single soul who thinks he hasn’t shown up since the last time everyone saw him because in the time you’ve been gone, even the people who were doubtful were convinced. You didn’t see Arthur, Merlin. He looked _hollow_. Some of the people who have been around here much longer than you or I have even likened it to when Uther had lost Ygraine.”

Merlin stared, surprised. Finally, he croaked, “That bad?”

“I’d say worse, but that _would_ be exaggerating.” Gwaine fixed Merlin with a look that Gaius would have been proud of. “I expect Arthur to keep things from us. I really do. But we’re _friends_ , Merlin. You know more about me than anyone else here. I’ve trusted you with my greatest secret and can be trusted to return the favour, you know.”

Merlin said nothing, hating himself for his silence but knowing there was no other way.

Knowledge was dangerous, and he didn’t want to put Gwaine in danger. Not like he had Gaius.

Gwaine sighed. “I’m not saying you have to tell me everything. I’m just asking you to be honest with me and to stop trying to fool your friends. You _do_ know more about this situation than what Arthur told us, don’t you?”

Merlin hesitated, then nodded.

“Knew it,” Gwaine muttered. “Then what do you think of it all? Do you really think we should be trusting a sorcerer who’s supposedly saved us but who has definitely threatened Arthur as surely as Morgana has?”

“He has saved us,” Merlin corrected. “Arthur wasn’t exaggerating that bit, and neither was Gwen. And, tell you what, as soon as Emrys explains to Arthur what was meant by that threat, I’ll pass it on, all right? Then you won’t have to wait until Arthur can gather everyone together to say it.”

Gwaine looked at Merlin for a long moment. Finally, “You’re on better terms with Emrys than Arthur is, aren’t you?”

Merlin shrugged. “I believe him a bit more readily than Arthur if that’s what you mean, yes. Mostly because of knowing Will, I think. I know magic better than Arthur because of that. I know that it’s something to be respected, not necessarily feared, and I think…. I think Emrys knows that, on some level, and appreciates it. Because I’m willing to accept that magic is only as evil as its bearer.”

“And because in Camelot, everyone else seems to instinctively shy away from sorcery,” Gwaine concluded, following Merlin’s reasoning easily. “Even those of us who didn’t spend all our lives here.”

Merlin grinned. “That, too.”

“So you want to tell me what happened to Arthur to make it seem like he lost Gwen again? Did Emrys threaten him?”

Merlin’s smile fell away. “Gwaine—”

“Merlin, you didn’t hear the guy. He said there was every chance he would kill the king. Kill Arthur. And you know as well as I do that that would clear the way for Morgana.”

“Emrys is different,” Merlin argued.

“But we don’t _know_ that,” Gwaine said. “Merlin, I want to trust your judgement. You always seem to be right even when the truth is absurd. But you’re as protective of Arthur as any of us, so how can you support someone who told me—told _four_ of us—that he’ll kill one of your best friends?”

The unasked question— _What do you know that we don’t?_ —hung in the air.

Merlin was somewhat regretting telling the knights the truth in the forest that day. If he hadn’t—if he’d never shown anything but support for Arthur—this would be a much easier argument. There might not even have _been_ an argument, as Gwaine had likely encountered at least one non-corrupt sorcerer in his lifetime. 

But while Gwaine was not one to give Arthur undue respect, he was loyal to him. Gwaine had seen too many threats carried out—or attempts made to carry them out—to do anything but take them seriously. All the knights had.

At least, unless Merlin was the one saying he’d kill Arthur when he actually looked like himself. But he supposed he couldn’t fault them for that any more than he could fault them for having doubts about Emrys.

He wasn’t naïve enough, of course, to think that Gwaine was the only one to have doubts. He might not even have the strongest doubts. (Personally, Merlin thought Leon might, once he heard the story, if only because he was from one of Camelot’s noble families and had the upbringing of such.) Gwaine had simply been the one elected to talk to him about it, because he was Gwaine, and of the four knights privy to this knowledge, Merlin was perhaps closest to him. If nothing else, Gwaine was the one he’d dragged along to help with Arthur’s quest, and even if the others knew nothing about that, they knew that he and Gwaine trusted each other. 

So perhaps it was time for Merlin to trust Gwaine again.

Merlin exhaled slowly. Then, “You said I was on better terms with Emrys than Arthur, and you’re right. That’s because I know him better. I knew him before Arthur ever did.” Merlin bit his lip. Telling such things to Arthur was one thing; to say them to Gwaine was quite another. “There’s a reason Emrys always seems to slip past me whenever he turns up in Camelot again.”

Gwaine put the pieces together just as Merlin had expected him to: “You’re helping him.”

Merlin said nothing, for silence would tell volumes. When the entire truth came out, he would regret the pain his playing of this delicate game would cause, but until then…. Until then, he had little choice.

“You trust him enough to help him.” There was more that Gwaine was not saying, though Merlin could read between the lines easily enough: _You trust him enough to go behind Arthur’s back and defy Camelot’s laws. You trust him enough to risk your own life. You trust him enough to risk all of our lives, if you’re wrong._

“I trust him to save Arthur, Gaius, Gwen, you, everyone. I trust him to save all of Camelot. He has before, and he will again.”

Gwaine looked at him for an awfully long time. Finally, “Are you sure you aren’t getting in over your head, Merlin?”

_No, I’m not. But I rarely am._ Still, it was a relief to know that Gwaine trusted him enough to trust Emrys despite his misgivings, and Merlin had no doubt he’d find a way to convince the other knights to do the same. So Merlin mustered a smile and said, “You said it yourself: I’ve got a talent for spotting the truth, no matter how absurd it is. You don’t need to fear Emrys despite what he might have said about Arthur. The truth is, he’d never hurt him of his own free will. I know it.”

Gwaine nodded slowly. “I hope you’re right, Merlin,” he said, “and not just seeing the best in people.”

“I’m right,” Merlin assured him. Gwaine looked like he was trusting Merlin’s word more than anything else, but the fact that he deemed it enough gave Merlin hope.

He just hoped, at the same time, that Gwaine would understand why Merlin had not told him everything when he’d had the chance.

-|-

Arthur’s afternoon was filled—he was, unfortunately, still playing a fair bit of catch-up after putting off so many things in favour of his earlier searching for Emrys—and he took his supper with Guinevere, so he was not alone with Merlin again until the end of the day.

On one hand, this was a good thing. Arthur dealt with Merlin best these days when he didn’t have to put up with him all the time. But things were somehow better between them now than they had been just the day previous. Arthur wasn’t sure how much it had to do with the fact that he’d acquiesced to Merlin’s request—he’d made it clear to the council that he was willing to take a different stance on magic than his father before him—but he suspected it was due to an entirely different reason.

That reason being that he was finding he could talk to Merlin like he’d always used to.

And their earlier exchange had made him realize how much he’d _missed_ that, even in the short time it had been gone.

Arthur pretended not to notice that Merlin had filched one of his chicken legs, even if he didn’t exactly appreciate Merlin’s greasy fingers straightening his bedding. “You never told me about the incident with the knights.”

“I haven’t told you about a lot of things yet,” Merlin admitted. “Even for what I’m ready to tell, you weren’t quite willing to listen before, and you have to be ready to hear what I have to say.”

Arthur knew precisely what Merlin was referring to, of course. 

He couldn’t help but be somewhat disgruntled that Merlin was right. Again.

“This I _do_ want to hear. All of it. Now.”

Merlin hesitated.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Arthur added dryly.

Merlin finished what he was doing and moved to sit down on the chest at the foot of the bed. Then he said, “Remember how I said I’d never done anything against you of my own free will?”

Arthur nodded and was about to make a remark about how this appeared rather contrary to that statement when his mind registered the last part of Merlin’s sentence: _of my own free will_.

An icy pit formed in his stomach and he couldn’t stop himself from thinking the worst. It wasn’t just that Merlin had been forced into something or tricked into it. No, Merlin had been robbed of his free will and _controlled_. And anyone who controlled Merlin controlled his _magic_ , which was something Arthur could not hope to fight. 

If that _ever_ happened again….

“Well, you might remember a couple days a few years ago when I wasn’t quite acting like myself,” Merlin continued. “It was one of the times Morgana captured me—”

“ _One_ of the times?” Arthur interrupted, incredulous.

Merlin shrugged. “I’ve been a thorn in her side for a while, even if she hasn’t worked out precisely how I’m still around. I think she might suspect Emrys is helping me. Since she thinks he’s the one that destroyed the Fomorroh so I stopped trying to kill you, I suppose it’s a logical conclusion.”

As confused as Arthur was about this Fomorroh—though he suspected it to be a creature of dark magic—his overwhelming feeling was one of horror, and from Merlin’s expression, he hadn’t managed to keep it off his face.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Merlin hurriedly added.

“ _Not as bad as it sounds_?” Arthur repeated. “You really _did_ try to kill me, and you say that’s _not as bad as it sounds_?”

“Well, it’s not,” Merlin said defensively. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

Arthur was thinking that, unfortunately, Merlin was right again and he wasn’t ready to have this conversation. “You tried to kill me,” he said flatly.

Merlin sighed. “Gaius can fill you in better than I can, but the Fomorroh was once used by the High Priestess to enslave the minds of her enemies. Morgana thought it would be excellent if she used it to have me to kill you because I could get close enough to you to do it.”

Merlin didn’t try to downplay it, as Arthur had expected. He didn’t try to explain it away. He didn’t offer up distractions.

He simply said it as it had been: Morgana had tried to use him to kill Arthur.

“I had one of the Fomorroh’s heads just at the base of my neck,” Merlin said, one hand reaching behind his head, no doubt to touch the offending spot. “Luckily, Gaius realized that if he paralyzed it, it could no longer control me.”

Arthur swallowed. “And how long did it take him to realize this?”

Merlin pulled a face. “It was after he tried cutting it out and it grew back,” Merlin admitted. “But I wasn’t acting like myself. Gaius and Gwen…they knew, and they stopped me.”

Gaius and _Gwen_ had known?

They’d known that _Merlin_ had tried to kill him?

Merlin offered Arthur a smile. “Gwen says I was a horrible assassin,” he said cheerfully, though Arthur couldn’t tell how much of it was forced. The majority, he suspected, though Merlin had tried before to inject humour into situations to make them seem less…like _this_. Usually, he was successful, but this time…. 

This time, Arthur couldn’t even muster up a smirk, and Merlin knew it.

“Sort of like how you think I’m awful when it comes to hunting,” Merlin added.

Arthur just stared at him, trying to figure out how he’d never noticed this. Any of this. If not Merlin’s magic, then the obvious change in his behaviour that had been evident to both Gwen and Gaius.

When Merlin had actively tried to _kill_ him.

But he hadn’t.

He’d been blind to all of it, even to something like this that should have been as plain as day.

“Gaius figures it has more to do with my magic than anything else. That it was strong enough to keep me from being completely overwhelmed by the Fomorroh.”

Arthur still couldn’t find his tongue, even though he could see Merlin looking at him imploringly.

“It kept bolts from firing,” Merlin said quietly, “and threw me off my balance, having me misjudge distances and weight. Gaius and Gwen kept a close watch on me, and some of it was simply good timing, from what they tell me. I don’t really remember much.” He paused. “Well, anything, actually, from when I was under the Fomorroh’s control. I’m going off what they saw and the…evidence of my attempts.”

“The evidence,” Arthur repeated dully.

“Poisoned pigs, pierced bedpost, corroded sword….” Merlin trailed off. “There were a number of little things.” And before Arthur could think to protest Merlin calling such things _little_ , he’d continued, “When I met the knights in the forest, I didn’t know how much time I had. Gaius had paralyzed the Fomorroh, and his best guess was that it would last the day, but I couldn’t afford to squander the time I did have in case he was wrong. I certainly couldn’t afford to be dragged back to Camelot and in front of you. I needed to get into Morgana’s hut and kill the mother beast. I needed—”

“Hold on,” Arthur interrupted. “Are you telling me you _knew_ where Morgana had been holed up? For how long?”

“Arthur—”

“How long, Merlin?”

“Not until then,” Merlin said. “Not for sure. Before that, I just knew she had to be somewhere relatively close to be in contact with Agravaine so often.” 

Agravaine.

Arthur wished he wouldn’t have to be reminded of his uncle so often. “And how long had you suspected him of being the traitor?” Arthur knew Merlin—and Gaius, of course—had been the first one to suspect Agravaine. Merlin had gone so far as to try to prove Agravaine’s treachery to Arthur, but Merlin’s claims had seemed false at first.

It hadn’t been the first time Merlin had been able to spot something he’d been blind to, and now that Arthur knew Merlin’s insight was actually tied to something concrete—either his magic or his phenomenal ability to get into trouble, though Arthur wasn’t quite sure which—he had no doubts that it wouldn’t be the last.

Even if that didn’t say much for him.

“Long before that,” Merlin answered vaguely. 

Arthur glared at him.

In a quiet voice, Merlin clarified, “Morgana didn’t put that amulet around your father’s neck herself.”

The reminder was an unpleasant one—and considering it felt like a knife to the heart, that was putting it mildly—but Arthur supposed that, since Gaius and Merlin would be able to identify magical artefacts and had a much better knowledge than he at the time of what had happened, it was logical for them to realize Morgana was behind it all.

Arthur wasn’t sure precisely how they’d realized—or at least come to suspect—his uncle, and he didn’t entirely want to ask. He couldn’t help but wonder if they’d suspected Agravaine for reasons similar to why he himself had trusted his uncle: he was family, for all that Arthur hadn’t seen him very often.

He was family, in a family filled with treachery, and, as far as Merlin would be concerned, an outsider.

Agravaine may not have been related by blood to Morgana, but he had been more her family than Arthur’s in the end.

Thinking back on Agravaine made Arthur remember the last he’d seen of him and the report he’d received when he’d sent some knights back along their trail. Some of the bodies of the dead had been collected before anyone had even arrived; others had already been ravaged by scavengers. Many of the remaining bodies had clearly been burned alive, though Arthur had never questioned how until now, and now all he could think of was all the times sorcerers had conjured fire with little more than a murmured spell. But some bodies, like that of his uncle’s, had been wholly intact and relatively unmarred. 

A misstep in the dark of the caves, Gaius had suggested. A fall—unfortunate for him but fortunate for Arthur and the rest of his band as they were left free to reclaim Camelot—that resulted in a nasty blow to the head. A cracked skull, internal bleeding filling the brain cavity…. He wouldn’t have suffered, Gaius had said. If he had not passed away immediately, he would have lost consciousness and never awoken.

Arthur knew Agravaine well enough to know that he wasn’t what one would consider clumsy. Not like Merlin. And Agravaine and his men would have had torches just as they had, if not a guide who was _supposed_ to know the tunnels well. 

Yet when they’d heard the unmistakeable sounds of them being followed, Merlin had immediately volunteered to go back, confident that he could lose them, give the others enough time to get out, and still be able to catch up. All without being truly caught himself.

So perhaps he had led Agravaine and the others along a merry chase in the caves where they were too intent on catching Merlin—and hopefully, having secured Merlin, then catching him—to watch their step.

But Arthur was no longer as sure of that as he had once been.

Arthur vaguely recalled a similar surmise of the circumstances regarding the deaths of who had appeared to be Agravaine’s closest men. He’d never thought to question it. He’d been too grateful to have Morgana gone and Gwen by his side again to wonder about the peculiar circumstances of it all. He had, perhaps, unwittingly attributed some of the inexplicable things to the same thing Morgana had: the mysterious Emrys. But mostly, he’d trusted in the actions of himself and his people and had fully believed he was seeing only the fruits of their victorious fight.

And now he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask. Not quite yet. 

The possibility sickened him.

The _probability_ sickened him.

To think that _Merlin_ had…had….

“But as I was saying,” Merlin finally continued, “I needed to kill the mother beast to truly be free. I did, and I am. But don’t think Morgana can do it again, Arthur. For one, she thinks Emrys will interfere again if she tries, and for another, she wouldn’t be successful. That’s what this proved. My magic would hold me back and trip me up and stop me from doing something I cannot: hurting you. Even the Fomorroh couldn’t fully control me, forcing me to use my magic against you, so you needn’t worry that someone will someday find a way to do it, because they _won’t_.”

Perhaps Merlin hadn’t intended for it to sound the way it did, but Arthur couldn’t ignore that he was hearing it all another way as well: that Merlin was more powerful than this…Fomorroh, more powerful than Morgana. That he was a force to be reckoned with, a force which could not fought, nor beaten down, nor tamed.

“Some things are stronger than anything Morgana has up her sleeve,” Merlin added earnestly. “You must know that my loyalty to you is something that will never change and can never _be_ changed.”

Arthur supposed he ought to be grateful that Merlin, under the Fomorroh’s influence, hadn’t simply killed him as effectively and, no doubt, efficiently as he must have done with Agravaine in the caves, and quite possibly the men outside it, but frankly he was having difficulty fighting down the growing horror of what this all meant.

He’d never thought of Merlin as a murderer before.

He’d never thought Merlin capable of it, to be honest.

Merlin was too…Merlin.

Yet Arthur already knew that the Merlin he knew, the side Merlin had always shown him, was merely that: one side. 

He simply hadn’t expected, even after finding out that Merlin had magic, that Merlin had used that magic to take the lives of others, yet Arthur was certain he’d put the pieces together correctly this time.

It was rather disheartening, as he’d been using that characteristic as a defining difference between Merlin and Morgana.

Oh, the difference was still there, he knew. What Merlin had done would be little different from what he himself—and the rest of the knights—had done. In battle, killing was necessary. Brutal, sometimes, especially for the newest knights who were still unaccustomed to the demands of their position and lacked the trust in themselves required for a sure, steady stroke of the sword, but undoubtedly necessary when the circumstances were kill or be killed. Kill and triumph, or be killed and fall, and with you, the whole of the kingdom.

Merlin would have acted in defence. If not in defence, then for the good of Camelot. He wouldn’t have slaughtered innocents like Morgana.

But he still would have posed a fight that could not have been won with a sword lest its bearer had managed to catch him off his guard, something Arthur was beginning to think would be rather difficult indeed.

If Merlin hadn’t been as good at what he did as he was, then Arthur—or at least someone else—would have pieced this together long before.

It was a wonder Morgana hadn’t put it all together.

Or maybe she had and was deciding upon the best way to act upon it while they were none the wiser.

“Arthur?”

“Leave me, Merlin.” He didn’t want to speak to Merlin about this now. This was…. He wanted to cling, for a moment longer, to image of the cheerful idiot he had always thought his manservant to be. The mental picture of a powerful Merlin whose face betrayed no emotion—not even the hint of his usual smile—was chilling, and Arthur wondered if his enemies had ever had any inkling, any sense of foreboding, for what would soon come when they came face to face with the one person they had all underestimated.

“Do you want to hear it from Gaius? Gwen? I can send them to you if you like. If it’ll…help.”

Merlin thought he was hesitant to believe that the circumstances had been as Merlin had described them. He wouldn’t dream that Arthur had realized something he was quite sure Merlin hadn’t meant to tell him for a very long time. 

_“I haven’t told you about a lot of things yet.”_

Arthur was beginning to think that, even if he kept guessing, he would never know much of what Merlin had kept from him, despite Merlin’s promise to tell him everything.

Even when Merlin had made that promise, it hadn’t quite rung true to Arthur’s ears.

Someone so used to keeping secrets did not suddenly spill them all.

_“You have to be ready to hear what I have to say.”_

Perhaps that would be Merlin’s excuse for withholding a few of the more sensitive details. Or perhaps he’d conveniently forget them. Or perhaps he would simply repeat what he’d said when Arthur had accused him of not telling him any of this before: that he’d wanted to tell him but couldn’t seem to find the right time to do it.

“That’s not necessary,” Arthur finally said. “I believe you, Merlin. I just need time to think on it.”

Merlin looked relieved. “I’ll be by later to collect your dishes once you’re finished,” he said, nodding at the remains of the dinner of which Arthur was quite sure he didn’t have the appetite to eat another bite. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

No, he didn’t. Not anymore. Clearly he never had, if the number of times he’d gone to Gaius in search of his manservant only to leave on the assumption that Merlin was in the tavern again was any indication. But Arthur didn’t correct Merlin. Instead, he waved him away, and Merlin went off, and Arthur was left to stare at his food in silence.


	9. Chapter 9

It wasn’t hard for Gwaine to reassure the others—and help them convince Leon—that, regardless of what Dragoon had said to them, Merlin backed Arthur’s words.

It wasn’t that none of them were wary of trusting Arthur; it was that they had all heard, if not experienced, stories of how sorcerers had tried and, sometimes, managed to ensnare the minds of Camelot’s monarchs in the past. 

He still cracked up when he thought of Uther and the troll, but that didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate the seriousness of the situation.

So he, like the others, appreciated Merlin’s second opinion.

But though Gwaine didn’t tell the others, he wondered if his revelation regarding Merlin and Dragoon—Emrys—meant they shouldn’t be putting quite so much stock in it as usual.

Still, he trusted Merlin. Merlin was a good judge of character. He was usually one of the first among them to suss out someone who wasn’t as trustworthy as they first appeared. 

Gwaine just had to trust that this wouldn’t be the time Merlin got it wrong.

It explained a lot, though. Why Merlin had, at times, appeared as invested in this search for Emrys as Arthur. Where Merlin got off to when Arthur couldn’t seem to find him. It might explain some of his knowledge. It might explain some of his luck. 

On one hand, Gwaine wished Merlin had shared this with him before. He could have helped. But on the other hand, he realized that he—like Merlin, but Merlin always seemed to be able to get away with it—would be defying the king if he kept such knowledge from Arthur. By keeping his silence, Merlin had not put Gwaine in a difficult situation and forced him to choose between his loyalty to his friend and his loyalty to his king.

Gwaine would have felt perhaps a bit more grateful for Merlin’s thoughtfulness if he hadn’t figured Merlin should know he’d gladly have been put in that situation and managed it excellently if it meant helping out a friend.

But he would keep silent regarding Merlin’s involvement with Emrys for now. He didn’t want to give the other knights any reason to doubt—or, more accurately, to even _think_ about doubting—when Merlin (and Arthur and surely Gaius) seemed to wholly trust Emrys. 

Neither he nor Percival were as instinctively wary of magic as the others. Like Merlin, they had not grown up in Camelot. True, he’d seen more than enough examples of magic to know better than to dismiss it. Morgana’s wielding of it could be truly terrifying. But he’d also witnessed a number of examples of harmless magic—not the least of which was when the guardian of that bridge had turned his sword into flower for threatening him.

Gwaine was still thankful he’d been kind enough to make the transformation temporary, as he wouldn’t have fancied facing wyverns with nothing more harmful than a flower.

So magic—sorcery itself—wasn’t as inherently bad as Uther had always believed. Of that, Gwaine was certain.

He was considerably less certain about Emrys, since he had learned long ago when to take threats seriously.

It hadn’t been an ill-timed joke. It had been an exasperated admission. A challenge. _Let me go or I’ll kill your king._

Perhaps those hadn’t been his exact words, but the meaning had been the same.

And then Emrys had demonstrated his power, taking the four of them down with seemingly little effort.

But Merlin trusted him. Gwaine had to remember that. When it came to someone who could potentially threaten Arthur, Merlin did not give his trust easily.

And if Merlin had helped Emrys before and was helping him again, then he would have had ample time to get to know the man. If he’d been met with growing suspicion, Gwaine knew he would have acted on it, even if it meant potentially facing the wrath of a sorcerer. Merlin was many things, but he wasn’t afraid of standing up for what—or who—he believed in.

He’d defended Gaius to Agravaine, and he seemed willing to defend Emrys to them, and that, if nothing else, was enough to convince Gwaine to believe him.

He still wondered, though, exactly how long Merlin had been _working_ with Emrys.

And whether he’d known him as Emrys or as Dragoon, as the rest of them had.

There was also a small part of him that wondered if Merlin had suggested Dragoon as a name to Emrys, given that it seemed like the sort of thing Merlin would come up with on the spot. 

But if nothing else, Merlin’s help certainly explained other things, too: how Emrys had managed to get in and out of the castle all the time—or perhaps more accurately _around_ the castle, since Gwaine had little doubt his magic could get him in and out just fine. It explained Emrys’s apparent familiarity with all of them, something that was much more comfortably reasoned away as Merlin’s chattering on than as Emrys’s spying on them all without their knowing it.

Gwaine stretched out his sore muscles—Percival had managed to land a lucky blow during the morning’s training—and looked around at the other knights. He could read their facial expressions easily, and if he hadn’t been schooling his, he suspected they would have been mirrors of his own. But he knew what to do in situations like this.

Situations like this just _begged_ for a visit to the tavern.

Gwaine put on an easy smile. “So,” he said, “who’s got the first round?”

None of the others appeared surprised in the slightest by his suggestion, which meant they were at least all thinking clearly. What _did_ surprise Gwaine, however, was Leon’s next words: “I’ll get it if you get the next one.” Leon was usually the one reminding him he shouldn’t be drinking away his pay and challenging unwitting new recruits to drinking contests when he was one of Arthur’s most trusted knights. Part of the ‘inner circle’, as Elyan called it. He should be setting a good example.

Most of that argument was repeated simply for the sake of having the argument, for Gwaine always went off to the tavern in the end anyway and they all knew how it would end before it even began, so he’d expected a bit of light-hearted bantering this time, too.

He wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, though.

“Sounds like an excellent idea,” Gwaine agreed, clapping Leon on the back. He might not be able to keep them all there until morning, but they would at least be able to forget the initial unease they all felt about the revelation of Emrys’s nature. And maybe, come the morrow, this would all be a bit easier to swallow.

-|-

Guinevere didn’t frequent the market as often as she once had. As a servant, she’d accompanied Morgana on occasion, and she’d been to more than a few stalls selling less elaborate things for herself. Now, as a queen, she was uncomfortably aware of everyone’s eyes on her wherever she went. Arthur maintained that she ought to take a guard, particularly if she was going to insist on these early morning trips, but she had thus far managed to put her foot down.

As far as the official guard went, at least.

For Arthur’s sake, she pretended not to notice the few castle servants who seemed to follow her meandering path whenever she went out.

Perhaps this _was_ a foolish venture, but she enjoyed it. It did her good, and she had little doubt it did her people good to see their commoner-turned-queen amongst them. It strengthened their relations. It ensured that the people saw them for who they were, not for the figureheads some would believe them to be. 

And it meant she had a chance to hear a bit of gossip that would otherwise not reach her ears for a very long time.

Gossip which sometimes, as seemed to be the case now, could be quite damaging indeed.

“I ‘eard the king was lookin’ fer a sorcerer,” the woman peddling scarves told her potential buyers. Anything to keep their attention, Gwen knew, for the longer they tarried, the more inclined they would be to make a purchase. “More’n that, ‘e wasn’t even lookin’ ta execute ‘im.”

Gwen, who had been idly examining some dyed yarn and contemplating what she could make from it, stilled.

The woman leaned forward to her captive audience and said in a loud, conspiratorial whisper, “From what I ‘ear, ‘e meant ta use ‘im. Use ‘is magic.”

“Whatever for?” the woman nearest Gwen asked.

The peddler shrugged. “That’s the question, ain’t it? What’s ‘e suddenly need magic fer?”

Gwen didn’t dare draw attention to herself now, though she longed to ask where the peddler had heard that particular rumour. Instead, she ducked her head and moved on. If anyone else was whispering about this, she dearly wanted to know. 

She was looking at the wares from the local blacksmith with a critical eye—honestly, had the man gotten an apprentice who didn’t know the first thing about the trade or did he truly not notice how unevenly weighted that ploughshare was?—when she caught the next piece of relevant conversation.

“…never thought I’d see Uther’s son be sympathetic to those bloody sorcerers.”

“Nothing’s official yet.”

_There_. From the corner of her eye, Gwen managed to pinpoint the two men who were gossiping like fishwives. 

“Doesn’t have to be official,” the first one shot back. “Doesn’t need to be. There hasn’t been a public execution in years. That’s telling enough.”

“Still doesn’t mean he’s going soft,” the second man countered. “Morgana’s not made another move yet.”

The first one snorted. “She ain’t done, either. You mark my words, that witch will be back unless she sees the pyre or the chopping block first.”

“You think she’ll take advantage of this, if the king goes through with it?”

“She’d be a fool not to, and she’s no fool. She’ll exploit any weakness she sees.”

The second man was quiet for a long moment, and Gwen was about to move on when he said, “How many do you think will fall this time?”

The response was grim and definitive: “Too many.”

Guinevere pressed on.

-|-

Gaius looked up at the knock and was slightly surprised to see Gwen slip into the room, closing the door sharply behind her. She’d crossed the room in a few long strides and eased herself onto the bench opposite Gaius. “I need to talk to you,” she said.

Gaius knew Gwen well enough to know that she did not care for the show of titles her position deserved. But he had heard the desperation in her voice and seen the worried look in her eyes, so he offered her a small smile. “You know you can speak freely,” he prompted.

Gwen bit her lip. Then, “I went to the market this morning.”

This was not wholly unusual for Guinevere, so Gaius merely waited for her to continue.

“The people are talking,” Gwen blurted out. “It’s all throughout, and there seems to be enough truth mixed in it all for it to be believed, and I don’t know who would have talked, and I’m not sure Arthur will either, or anyone else, but—”

“Slowly,” Gaius advised, not quite managing to keep the smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth. He did realize that Gwen thought the situation quite serious, whatever the situation was, but her rambling tendency, which surfaced less frequently than it once had, was endearing.

“Everyone seems to be saying something slightly different,” Gwen said after taking a deep breath, “but little of it is good.”

“Go on.”

“The people know that Arthur had been looking for a sorcerer. Most seem to even know that Emrys is said to be a powerful sorcerer.” Gwen began to wring her hands together. “Some seem to be expecting Arthur to announce a public execution, but others are saying…. Others are saying he’s become sympathetic, Gaius, and not fit to be king! They say he’s little better than Morgana. ‘He’ll be nothing more than a mouthpiece,’ one man said. As if they expect Emrys to _use_ him. To enchant him and rule _through_ him!”

Gaius no longer felt the urge to smile. The situation was dire indeed if the people were beginning to doubt their king. “Surely Arthur’s actions have shown that that would never be the case?”

Gwen shook her head. “That’s not all. It gets worse.” 

Worse? However could it be worse? They’d have a difficult enough time proving to the people beyond a shadow of a doubt that Emrys had no such ill intentions without producing him, and Gaius did not want to put Merlin in that situation. From what Guinevere had said, there were some people who were fully convinced that Uther had had the right of it, and they’d not stand to see a sorcerer go free, let alone allow that sorcerer to stand by Arthur’s side.

“I expect one of the servants had his tongue loosed from too much ale, or perhaps one of the councilmen’s aides finally heard something a bit too tempting to refrain from telling, but some of the people even know what Arthur proposed at the last council meeting. But while Arthur merely spoke of amending the laws against sorcery where the Druids were concerned, people have already extrapolated and anticipated what’s to come. They say he’s relaxing the laws against magic and leaving us open to attack. They say he’s setting the stage for Camelot’s demise!”

“If need be, Arthur can publically explain his decisions,” Gaius pointed out. “He has the trust of his people, and they will see the sense in his rulings.”

“But that’s what I’m not sure about,” Gwen said in a quiet voice. “Gaius, I heard a few people….” Her voice faltered. “Some were saying….”

Oh, he had dearly hoped he’d already heard the worst of it. But clearly he had not.

“Some were saying he’s in league with Morgana,” Guinevere said, her voice nearly trembling as she repeated the preposterous lie. “Others were saying he’s become little more than her pawn. They say that is why she’s made no move against us in so long; she hasn’t any need to. Some say it’s because she can force Arthur to do whatever she wishes, but others dare to say it’s because he’s _letting_ her. Because—” Gwen broke off, shaking her head more fiercely than before.

She didn’t finish.

Gaius wasn’t sure she needed to.

Doubts, once seeded, were notoriously difficult to vanquish. 

Merlin had told him of how Arthur had doubted whether or not he was fit to be Camelot’s king. The doubts which had begun back when Arthur had not completed his quest alone had grown, multiplied, and come back in full force with Morgana’s last attack. It had been Merlin’s tale and the show of support from the people which had carried Arthur through those dark times.

To lose that support now….

“I’ll send Merlin out,” Gaius said, “to see if he hears as much as you did. I dread to think what we will face if this dissent is as widespread as it appears to be.” It was the setting that worried him the most. The market drew many from the surrounding villages, and they would no doubt be all too willing to repeat whatever scandalous tales they’d heard about King Arthur. 

They needed to contain this, and to do so, they’d need to act quickly.

To begin with, they’d have to get as much information as possible as soon as they could. Gaius knew ale loosened tongues, but he didn’t want to wait until tomorrow morning for a report. They would need to get someone out earlier today.

“People will recognize Merlin as readily as they recognize me,” Gwen argued. “He’s been Arthur’s manservant for too long for anyone not to know him. I tried to hide my face, but more than a few people broke off their conversations when they realized I could overhear them. The same will happen with him.”

Merlin was a bit better at disguises than Gwen knew, but Gaius felt now was not the time to divulge that information. “Perhaps,” Gaius conceded, “but I feel it is best if we elicit the aid of someone we can trust explicitly.”

“But someone who can go relatively unnoticed,” Gwen cautioned. “We’ll never know all that they are saying if they are too afraid to speak for fear of being overheard by unwanted ears.”

Gwen’s condition ruled out the first names that came to Gaius’s lips, but unfortunately she was correct. They could send out no one with any status—none of the knights—and no one who was even relatively well-known. Not him, not Merlin. No one with any notable position in court.

The remaining options were slim.

“It’ll be best if it’s someone who won’t ask questions,” Gwen added, “and someone who can move freely without drawing attention to themselves.”

Gaius could tell from her tone now that she had someone in mind, and he rather suspected she’d come to the same conclusion he had. For while there were a number of people who wouldn’t directly ask questions of them, however many they might have, there were fewer who wouldn’t be recognized and fewer still who wouldn’t whisper behind their backs. 

After all, they certainly didn’t want to add to the marketplace gossip.

“I’ll talk to him,” Gwen said after a moment, clearly realizing the same thing he had. “You should fill Merlin in.”

“And Arthur?”

Gwen hesitated. “I don’t want to worry him.”

Gaius raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t want to unduly worry him,” Gwen corrected. 

“You don’t want to tell him yet,” Gaius translated.

“Not until I know for certain,” Gwen hedged, though Gaius knew that wasn’t the whole truth in the slightest.

After all, Guinevere had overheard more than enough to be certain. She simply didn’t want to admit it because they weren’t yet sure the best way to combat this. Fighting a battle with swords was one thing.

Fighting a battle with words was quite another.

“Very well,” Gaius agreed. “There’s no sense in rushing to conclusions. We can inform Arthur once we’ve confirmed the extent of the rumours.”

If nothing else, it would give him time to figure out potential solutions when Arthur asked them all for their suggestions.

Gwen looked relieved. “I’ll let you know what we find out immediately,” she promised, getting to her feet. “Thank you.”

Once she was gone, Gaius closed his eyes and thought back on who could have begun these rumours. Someone must have said something to someone else. Gwen had already made it clear that she wasn’t sure who it could be herself, but she wouldn’t have asked around if she hadn’t wanted to arouse suspicion. 

He could make a few inquiries and have Merlin make a few others without drawing too much attention, however, and if they pinpointed the leak, they’d have an easier time taking action.

But the most difficult thing that faced them now seemed to be ridding the people of these false notions beyond any shadow of a doubt. 

Particularly if Arthur went ahead and amended, even if not ever fully retracted, the laws on sorcery.

Gaius finished his preparations for the nettle leaf infusion and moved it aside to mature. He had a few patients to check up on as part of his midday rounds, and he gathered what he needed for those. He’d make a few enquiries en route, and if he crossed paths with Merlin, he’d fill him in then.

-|-

It had been ridiculously easy to fool everyone.

Not that she’d have expected anyone to notice, of course. She’d seen neither hide nor hair of Emrys, and he was the only one she truly feared could spoil her plans. Not even Arthur’s bumbling manservant had suspected anything, and he’d been the one to foil many of her schemes in the past.

Then again, she’d taken a different approach to it this time. She hadn’t displayed her strength. Instead, she’d exposed one of Arthur’s weaknesses.

If her trip through the market in the lower town this morning had revealed anything, it had made her certain that Arthur’s position on Camelot’s throne was not as…unquestioned as he might like. He always tried to do what was best for his people. He depended on their support. 

To have it begin to crumble beneath him would be so very amusing to watch.

She had never imagined the timing would be as perfect as it had been. It seemed that Arthur was scrambling for allies, and he was willing to compromise Uther’s strict laws against sorcery to gain them. She didn’t expect his efforts to be wholly futile—there would undoubtedly be a few Druids who were willing to move past the bloodshed of the past, particularly with Emrys keeping close to Arthur’s side—but she was certain he had never fully anticipated how such actions would be able to shake the faith of some of his most loyal followers.

A few murmured words here, a whispered phrase there….

Arthur would be standing on unsteady ground indeed if the foundation of his reign was grounded in his people.

The people in the outlying villages might well be more easily swayed by Arthur’s arguments. They would have traded more readily with those in other kingdoms and quite possibly have housed a traveller or two in their time, and they had always been farther from Uther’s influence, so the laws may have been slightly less brutally enforced. She had no doubt that some of the officials there would be willing to turn a blind eye to evidence of magic if the family of the accused could pay well for the privilege of being overlooked.

The people at the very heart of Camelot, however, were a rather different story.

With all the attacks on the castle, the people of the lower town had suffered the worst. A mysterious water-borne disease, fiery attacks by a dragon, spoiled grain…. The list was certainly longer than Arthur would like it to be if he was going to make any sort of case that magic could be tolerated.

She found it rather amusing that he was trying, really. He didn’t understand magic, and if he expected that no one had long memories, he was quite mistaken. He and Uther both had robbed so many people of their kin that she doubted he would see much support from the magical community. After all, relaxing the laws was not retracting them altogether. Just because Arthur was proposing that the Druids themselves not be targeted for who they were, it didn’t mean he was willing to overlook open displays of sorcery.

He would see little benefit from his current move, and she would reap much from the backlash from Camelot’s loyal citizens who were still disgusted by the mere thought of sorcery, just as they had been taught by Uther.

She would later see those same citizens dead, but for now they were useful to her.

They would be Arthur’s undoing.

And once Arthur began to lose the support of his people and became uncertain of his own actions, she would be ready to strike.

It wouldn’t be a broad attack, a show of strength like before. She’d had no time to gather an army, nor the strength to create and sustain one. It would be a precise, unexpected blow once Arthur was at his weakest point, and Camelot would fall to her once again.

The dragon was regaining her strength more quickly than expected, and she would be ready to move when the moment was right.

And _she_ was the only one to control the dragon, for the bond between them was one which would not be broken easily.

And the sight of another dragon attacking the citadel—particularly when all the true dragons were thought to be gone, with only their close cousins the wyverns left—would send the people into a panic. And without a Dragonlord by his side—all of which had gone the way of the other dragons, she knew, thanks to Uther—Arthur would never be lucky enough to slay another dragon. Certainly not _her_ dragon, who was as quick and clever and cunning as she was herself.

Arthur hadn’t a hope.

Not while she had Aithusa by her side. 

For the first time in years, Morgana laughed.


	10. Chapter 10

“I beg your pardon, my lady, but you want me to do _what_?”

Gwen was rather surprised George didn’t bother to hide the incredulity in his voice. From what Arthur had told her, George rarely showed much emotion at all. But then again, Arthur would never have given him such a request as she just had. Arthur had merely given George duties that were expected of a manservant.

This was most definitely not one of those duties.

“Eavesdrop,” Gwen repeated patiently, “and report back to me.”

George visibly struggled to regain his composure. When he’d managed it, he asked, “In the market, my lady?”

“In the market,” Gwen confirmed. “We must know what the people are saying, and I’d rather hear it from a source I trust.”

George puffed up a bit at the compliment. “Of course, my lady,” he said stiffly, even though he still didn’t look thrilled by the prospect of mingling with everyone in the market. “I will report every word to you.”

“But not to Arthur,” Gwen warned, “unless I say otherwise.”

As she’d expected, George didn’t question this. The reply was merely another, “Of course, my lady.”

Gwen stressed a few other points—blend in, try to get people to talk without asking too many questions or being too pushy, don’t be too quick to defend them against scandalous remarks—before dismissing George. To be honest, she didn’t know him as well as she’d like. She’d never seen him outside of the role of servant, and she doubted he carried all the formalities with him when his duties were through. Yet she still felt she knew him well enough to trust him with something like this, despite all that.

He just…felt trustworthy.

Like Merlin, a bit, although it was a different sort of feeling. Merlin had that sort of friendly openness about him that charmed everyone, and if his smile ever fell away to seriousness, no one doubted his words. George…. George struck her as the sort of person who would be aghast at the very _idea_ of anyone spreading such rumours about them. About Arthur. He would know them quite well by now, and she doubted that such tales would even give him pause.

There simply wasn’t a soul who truly knew Arthur who would ever think he’d do something to the detriment of his people.

And George would know Arthur better than most, if not better than his close friends and confidants.

George, Gwen knew, was in a position where he knew more than he ever let on. Like she once had. Like Merlin still did. But the beauty of that position was that people tended to overlook you, to discount you, to forget that you would know as much as you did simply by the nature of your tasks. They underestimated you. Ignored you. You were invisible.

She’d been irrevocably thrust out of the shadows when she’d married Arthur. She’d assumed a position of importance. But that didn’t mean that she didn’t remember what it was like in the shadows. She knew the freedom such anonymity gave.

George could use his now, for her sake and for Arthur’s, and quite possibly for the sake of all of Camelot.

-|-

Merlin wasn’t sure what Arthur was thinking.

He clearly was thinking. Merlin had little doubt about that. He’d looked just the same when he’d been poring over the list that had been Merlin’s undoing. He was concentrating, and he looked troubled, and….

And, as had become usual, he wasn’t saying anything to Merlin.

Even when he asked.

Repeatedly.

“Merlin, I can’t think when you’re prattling on,” Arthur said bluntly, not looking up from the papers in front of him.

Merlin, who had been keeping a steady stream of chatter going that was worthy of Gwaine in an effort to get a reaction out of Arthur, snapped his mouth shut. Then he said, “Aren’t you at least going to tell me what you’re working on? You usually want me to write these speeches. Are you sure you’re going to sound like yourself if you’ve actually written it without my help?”

Arthur sighed. “It’s not a speech, Merlin.”

This was progress, Merlin knew. A few days ago, Arthur wouldn’t even have engaged him in conversation like this. If he’d wanted silence— _really_ wanted silence—he would have ordered Merlin to leave, and Merlin would have (eventually) left. It had been awfully disheartening when Arthur hadn’t treated him the way he always had before. While things were still far from normal, this was infinitely better than it had been.

It gave Merlin hope. 

“So what is it?” Arthur didn’t have to tell him, of course. But he always had before.

And, sure, Merlin could just look over Arthur’s shoulder or try to read upside down, but it was the principle of the thing.

It was a matter of trust.

“Proposals,” Arthur said flatly.

“For the council?” Merlin asked, perking up. He knew what Arthur had brought up at the council meeting yesterday. He’d had to hear it from Gaius and Gwen, but he knew about it nonetheless—which was more, he’d guess, than others of his station. He’d been trying to avoid becoming engaged in too many conversations—there were more people than he’d like who suspected he knew something about a sorcerer, and he supposed Bronwyn must have mentioned something to someone before Arthur had seen her—so he didn’t know as much about the gossip flying around as he usually did.

“It doesn’t concern you.”

Merlin gave Arthur a reproachful look which was completely ignored, mainly because Arthur missed it entirely since he still hadn’t looked up. “So it’s not about magic or sorcery or the Druids or—?”

“Why don’t you make yourself useful and get me my lunch like you’re supposed to?”

“I did,” Merlin said. “If you’d look beyond your nose, you’d see it.”

Arthur looked up to glare at him at that, though Merlin felt the jibe was more than warranted. Arthur finally reached over to grab some bread and chewed on that slowly as he went back to looking over the papers.

Merlin cleared his throat. Loudly.

Arthur, irritated, met his gaze again. “If you haven’t anything better to do—”

Merlin knew better than to let Arthur get any further than that. “I could give you some insight if you like.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “I don’t need to hear your advice, Merlin.”

“But I still know more about this than you do,” Merlin pointed out. “I’ve been living the other side of it.”

“Don’t remind me,” Arthur ground out.

“But if you want to know how any of your proposals would go over with—”

Arthur didn’t let him finish, and by his tone Merlin knew he’d pushed too far. “If I want anything from you, Merlin, I’ll ask for it.”

“Arthur—”

“And if I do ask anything of you,” Arthur continued loudly, “I’ll want facts, not theories.”

There was more on his mind than just the proposals for the council meeting. That wasn’t really surprising, of course, but Merlin wasn’t sure what was bothering Arthur more: that the knights now knew of Emrys, that Arthur knew _he_ was Emrys, or the difficulty of maintaining the lie that Merlin had needed to perfect to survive.

“Is there something you wanted to ask me?” Merlin asked quietly.

“No,” Arthur replied sharply, in a manner which told Merlin in no uncertain terms that he did.

So perhaps Arthur hadn’t made as much progress as Merlin had thought.

“Let me know when you change your mind,” Merlin said. Wheedling now would get him nowhere; if Arthur didn’t just tell him to leave—which he still might do—he’d shut down.

Arthur returned to his work, only occasionally remembering to nibble on his lunch. Merlin returned to what he’d been doing earlier: polishing Arthur’s boots. He still had a number of other chores that demanded his attention—Arthur invariably said enough to him to give him his orders—but times like now, when Arthur had fewer things to occupy his attention, were the most likely times he would say something to Merlin, and Merlin planned to be there to give Arthur every opportunity. 

He supposed he ought to be thankful that George wasn’t doing half his work, as it meant Arthur wasn’t thinking seriously of replacing him.

Not yet, anyway.

A knock at the door some time later managed to do what Merlin could not—pry Arthur’s attention away from the proposals—and Gaius looked in. “Sire,” he said, acknowledging Arthur with a slight dip of his head, “would you mind terribly if I borrowed Merlin for a moment?”

For a split second, Arthur looked like he was about to ask why. But then a mask fell across his face, and the moment of hesitation had vanished. In the end, he merely nodded and waved a hand.

Merlin shot him a worried look, nicked an apple off Arthur’s plate, and joined Gaius at the door. He bit into the apple, and Gaius led him aside, away from Arthur’s chambers—and the guards—to a nook not far from Morgana’s former chambers. “Have you heard anything, Merlin?” Gaius queried.

Merlin swallowed his latest bite of apple. He knew Gaius was asking about something specific, but he couldn’t guess what it was. “From the servants?” he asked. “About Emrys?”

Gaius looked grim. “Not just the servants,” he said, “and not just about Emrys. I need you to tell me what you’ve heard people saying.”

Merlin frowned. “Nothing unexpected. People are still saying Dragoon turned up recently. Everyone seems to be speculating about Emrys and why Arthur called off his search when he did, but I’ve only heard one person suggest that Dragoon and Emrys are one and the same, and I’m fairly certain he didn’t believe it even as he said it. There are a few people talking about sorcerers, so Bronwyn might have said something when she was here, but people just tend to be asking the same questions they always are.”

“So you’ve heard nothing new?”

Merlin shifted on his feet. “Well, no, but I haven’t heard much of anything recently. I’ve been trying not to get caught up in conversation.” He didn’t need to elaborate; Gaius knew him well enough to know why.

Merlin also knew Gaius well enough to know when he was worried. He’d known that from the first, of course, but this was…. This wasn’t something small this time. This wasn’t just going to be an oft-heard and oft-ignored ‘Be careful, Merlin’. This wasn’t just something that merited a look to tell him Gaius would be waiting for him to return from whatever dangerous task he’d set for himself. This was more…. This was one of those ‘the future of Camelot is hanging in the balance’ times.

And Merlin had no idea why.

“You may want to reconsider that,” Gaius said quietly.

Merlin was suddenly convinced he should never have nicked one of Arthur’s apples. He hadn’t had much, and already his stomach was protesting after digesting this news—even before he heard the half of it. “What’s happened now?”

“Word’s gotten out.”

For a heart-stopping moment, Merlin couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t do more than stare at Gaius, wishing he hadn’t heard those words. _Not like this, no, it_ can’t _be like this!_

Arthur still hadn’t really recovered from finding out. To put everyone else in the same position, all at the same time? To not get to choose how to tell, or who finds out when, or—?

“Not about you, precisely,” Merlin heard, and he sucked in a grateful breath. “About the powerful sorcerer Emrys,” Gaius clarified, “and his proximity to Arthur. About Arthur’s proposed changes to the laws banning sorcery. You can imagine the speculation, I’m sure.”

He could, and he suddenly understood Gaius’s questions and the meaning behind them. “What are they saying?” he asked—hoping, for once, that his imagination was worse than the reality.

“Little good,” was Gaius’s reply. “It seems some even believe Arthur may be in league with Morgana.”

After everything Arthur had been through by Morgana’s hand, the thought was utterly ridiculous.

But Merlin knew better than others that even ridiculous notions could be accepted, and he was well aware that what others perceived as ridiculous could in actuality be quite true.

Arthur had laughed at the thought of him being a sorcerer, after all.

“But it shouldn’t be that hard to prove them wrong, right?”

_Not right_ , if the look on Gaius’s face was anything to go by. “It can be terribly difficult to be rid of an idea once it is planted, no matter how ludicrous the premise.”

It was the timing of it all that made this worse. He was sure Bronwyn would have told someone besides them what she knew of Emrys. That information alone could have bred preposterous rumours. But coupling it with the fact that Arthur had finally worked up the nerve to propose any changes to Camelot’s laws on sorcery, no matter how unrelated?

It almost made Merlin wish Arthur had been stubborn enough to hold off on saying anything, since his actions now seemed to lend credence to what was apparently the town gossip.

“How do they know what Arthur said to the council?” Merlin asked. “Nothing’s official yet.”

“It matters little now,” Gaius pointed out. “The damage has been done.” 

Merlin knew what that meant: he had more pressing things to deal with. Presumably, finding out all he could and figuring out how to allay the people’s fears. Gaius would do his best to determine who had talked and why and whether it had been inadvertent or deliberate.

“Keep your ears open,” Gaius said. “Guinevere brought the matter to my attention, but we’ve yet to determine the extent of it all.”

Gaius didn’t know how many people were talking, how convinced they were of their own words, or how wild the rumours were. He wouldn’t necessarily be able to find out, but the more information they could gather, the better. A part of Merlin wondered who else Gaius was enlisting—Gwaine would surely be able to hear every version out there at the tavern—but he trusted Gaius’s judgement on the matter.

“I’ll tell Arthur you needed to send me to fetch something,” Merlin said. “Supplies. You need some more vials and jars, don’t you, after those last ones broke? He won’t question me.” _Especially not now when he’s second-guessing every question for fear he might not want to know the answer._

Gaius gave Merlin a long look, and Merlin knew it wasn’t solely because he had correctly assumed Arthur wasn’t to be told of this yet. “Just be sure,” Gaius said, “that you don’t forget what you went for.”

“I won’t,” Merlin promised, for he knew what Gaius was saying: do what you say you’re doing. Don’t lie more than you have to. Don’t give Arthur any more reason than he has not to trust you.

-|-

Merlin didn’t say anything when he came back in.

Arthur had expected him to continue on with his mindless twaddle, but he didn’t.

“What did Gaius want?” Arthur asked, realizing too late that Merlin’s silence might have been another attempt to get him to talk.

Merlin, who had picked up one of his boots and a polishing cloth, looked up at him. “Oh, he just needs me to get some supplies from the market. You know. Jars, vials, that sort of thing. He hasn’t got time himself, and he’s running low. I’m to speak with the glassblower if I can’t find enough, though I expect anything’ll do in a pinch. I can talk to the potter if—”

“I get the idea, Merlin.” And he did. He didn’t need to hear Merlin talk a blue streak to understand something so simple.

But the trouble was, he had a feeling that this _wasn’t_ so simple.

For one, Arthur hadn’t been so wrapped up in his own things that he hadn’t seen how troubled Gaius had looked, and he doubted a lack of empty jars could be the cause of that particular look.

For another, Merlin had given him that bright, easy smile of his, looking all wide-eyed and innocent, and Arthur’s stomach had clenched instinctively.

_Something’s wrong._

How often had it been like this—almost _exactly_ like this, with Merlin knowing something he didn’t and acting as if nothing were wrong—and he hadn’t seen it? Hadn’t noticed that anything was off? How many times had he been fooled?

Too many, Arthur would guess, if the fact that Merlin seemed to think he could still fool him was anything to go by.

_“I expect that this will be the end of secrets between us,”_ Arthur had told him, not even a fortnight ago now, and already he had evidence that that wouldn’t be the case.

He shouldn’t be surprised. He hadn’t really expected Merlin to stop keeping secrets from him. But he’d wanted to think that Merlin would, just in an effort to repair their fractured relationship. For if Merlin couldn’t trust Arthur with whatever he was keeping from him, how was Arthur to trust him?

_“You have to be ready to hear what I have to say.”_

How long could Merlin justify using that as an excuse?

“Do you need to go now?” Arthur asked, keeping his tone even.

“I was going to go once I finished your boots,” Merlin said, holding up the rag for emphasis. “You’ve gone and scuffed them all up again.”

Arthur tried to guess how urgent the matter truly was. Merlin didn’t sound like he was in a hurry. He wasn’t making excuses to leave. He was doing a phenomenal job of acting like nothing was wrong.

So perhaps Arthur was jumping to conclusions after all.

But he trusted his instincts, and they were telling him that something was wrong, and Merlin knew about it.

If he called Merlin out now, he’d have one chance to read whatever fleeting expression crossed Merlin’s face, and then he’d know the truth of it. He’d know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that Merlin was keeping something from him. Again. Just as he always had before.

_“You know I’m loyal to you and that I’ll never act against you.”_

From the little evidence Arthur had at his disposal, he still couldn’t refute those words. Merlin had, apparently, managed to thwart magical attacks. He’d saved his life far more times than Arthur knew. From what Arthur did know, Merlin had idiotically risked his life time and time again for Arthur’s sake and, by extension, for Camelot’s sake.

_“I’d never betray you.”_

And he would lie to do it.

Every time, it seemed.

Even now that Arthur knew the truth of the matter.

And despite it all, he still asked for trust in return.

Trust.

Arthur still couldn’t conceive the potential consequences of extending that trust too far, and that worried him more than he’d ever admit to Merlin. 

Sometimes, he had little choice in the matter. Sometimes, his hands were tied. Sometimes, there was only one reasonable option.

But this was not one of those times.

And if he never tried to place his trust in Merlin again, Arthur feared he’d never be able to. 

He dearly hoped this was a small matter, whatever it was, even though Gaius’s expression and Merlin’s silence caused him to doubt that.

“They’ll keep,” Arthur said, waving a hand. “Go—” and here he made another dismissive motion “—barter for the jars Gaius needs before you have to run to every craftsman in town to put in requests.”

Merlin blinked in surprise. “Really?”

Arthur shot him a withering look. “It _is_ in my best interests to see that my court physician is fully equipped with everything he needs,” he said dryly, “and you _are_ acting as Gaius’s apprentice, however little you seem to be learning.”

Merlin grinned, and Arthur realized he’d teased him—openly teased him—for the first time since…since it really mattered.

It was heart-wrenching, for Arthur was fiercely reminded of how things had once been and how they should still be. 

And he was surrounded by reminders of why they weren’t and haunted by thoughts of why they would never be that way again, however much it might come to appear that way on the surface.

Within the illusion.

_“He said he was going to kill you, sire.”_

How easily Merlin could have done it. From what he could gather, Merlin had spent time constructing elaborate schemes which had failed to pan out—all while he could have killed him without lifting a finger. 

_“Gaius figures it has more to do with my magic than anything else. That it was strong enough to keep me from being completely overwhelmed by the Fomorroh.”_

Merlin’s magic: his bane and his saviour. It was something that had saved him from quite a lot yet put him in the very position he was now. It was the reason he felt he no longer knew someone who had once seemed like his best friend, for all that he was nothing more than a disrespectful and rather inefficient servant. It was the reason Merlin had lied to him, had kept things from him, and quite possibly the reason he was still doing that, even after he’d promised not to.

Perhaps he’d tell Arthur in time, but Arthur wasn’t sure he’d ever find out the entire truth. And when he thought of Merlin and what he must have done to Agravaine, to all of Agravaine’s men, he wasn’t entirely sure he _wanted_ to know it. The men in the caves had at least met quick, clean deaths. The ones outside….

Arthur knew sorcerers could conjure fire, but he hadn’t thought Merlin quite so heartless as to ignite them all and dash back into the caves saying he was confident he’d sufficiently hidden their tracks without a trace of misgiving to be found in his face. The men had been chasing them, yes. For all that they could have been innocent men led astray, he didn’t regret that they had met their deaths in battle.

He regretted that Merlin apparently didn’t see anything wrong with burning them alive or slashing them open and leaving them to bleed out when he was clearly capable of inflicting a far less painful death. Even Uther, if he was executing the accused as had always been the case for sorcerers, had had the decency of ensuring that the axe—or if the accused was particularly fortunate, the sword—was sharp. All it took was a swift, steady, well-placed stroke. 

But this, with Merlin….

It hadn’t even taken him that long. Merlin hadn’t been very far behind them at all. At the time, when they’d heard the unmistakeable sounds of others in the cave, Arthur had assumed that Merlin’s inefficiency had shown itself again, that he’d mistakenly left some trace of theirs unhidden which had betrayed their position. Now….

Now he saw it as a rash show of raw power, fuelled by anger and desperation. A broad attack designed to encompass as many as possible, with the few—if any—survivors taken on in a neater, more easily-explained-away manner.

He should have questioned it before, back when he’d first heard the report. But he’d been so grateful that their luck hadn’t turned—and that Guinevere was back by his side—that he’d neglected to look further into the matter when he should have. 

As much as it had appeared as if fire had rained from the sky, charring everything in its path in great swaths, Arthur knew such things could only be caused by dragons and sorcerers, and the only sorcerer around who would have acted to defend them was Merlin.

One of the many rumours surrounding Morgana was that she had allied herself with a white dragon, but Arthur put little stock in those. He had slain the last dragon himself. Perhaps Morgana had managed to bewitch a wyvern, but he doubted that. He knew how ridiculous rumours could become, losing most, if not all, of the truth from which they had grown. But wyverns did not breathe fire, and even if they did, such creatures would never defend him and his party any more than a dragon would have—which is to say not at all, for he remembered all too well when the Great Dragon had lain siege to Camelot. Which meant the fire must have been magical in nature, which meant it must have been conjured by the only sorcerer in their party: Merlin.

_“You must know that my loyalty to you is something that will never change and can never_ be _changed.”_

He didn’t like to think that Merlin’s loyalty to him had caused him to do such callous things for his sake. Sometimes killing was necessary, but that didn’t mean it had to be done cruelly. Even his father had saved the pyre for those he believed deserved it, for those who had done something truly unforgiveable.

Arthur just hoped that whatever secret Merlin was keeping this time was considerably less deadly.


	11. Chapter 11

Leon found himself cornered by Gaius in the armoury. Of the knights, he had known Gaius the longest. Consequently, he knew something was wrong even before Gaius opened his mouth.

Even if the first words out of it weren’t precisely what he’d expected.

“If I might have a word, Sir Leon?”

Gaius was not dispensing of the formalities. 

Leon realized with a start that even now—even after all these years—he didn’t know what that meant.

“Of course,” he said, replacing the sword he’d been holding and giving Gaius his full attention.

“I trust you haven’t been overtaxing your shoulder,” Gaius began, referring to an injury Leon had sustained quite some time ago now and which threatened to flare up if he wasn’t careful. 

“I’ve been pushing myself,” Leon admitted carefully. Merlin had been to enough of their practices that Gaius undoubtedly already knew that. This wasn’t what he had come here to ask.

“Not too hard, I hope,” Gaius said, looking him over with a critical eye. 

Leon waited, knowing Gaius would reveal his true purpose soon enough.

Then, sure enough, “The other knights have spoken to you of Emrys, I am sure.”

They had, and Leon still wasn’t entirely sure what to think of the matter. Dragoon—Emrys—had threatened Arthur’s life. But Leon did not make it a habit of second guessing his king. He had followed Arthur into everything. He’d ridden out with him to face a dragon, fought off an immortal army, stared death in the face when they’d set out to rid Camelot of the chilling Dorocha. He’d been by Arthur’s side the longest.

Leon had never doubted him.

He still didn’t.

“They have,” Leon agreed.

“And do you believe Emrys will be Arthur’s undoing?”

Leon took a slow breath, knowing Gaius wanted an honest answer. “I have full faith in my king,” he said. 

Gaius gave him an even look. “That is not what I asked.”

Leon dropped his eyes, well aware that Gaius was not going to let him avoid the question. “I have seen little good come of sorcery,” he replied quietly, “and my first impressions of Emrys have not been particularly good ones.”

This time, it was Gaius who waited.

“Arthur has more reason than I to doubt magic users,” Leon finished, looking at Gaius again, “yet he does not question Emrys’s loyalty to him or to Camelot. However he ascertained that impression, I am not inclined to believe he is mistaken in his judgement. I trust him more than I trust Emrys, so I will do as Arthur asks.”

“But do you believe Emrys will be Arthur’s undoing?” Gaius repeated.

Part of Leon wanted to immediately answer _yes_ , for sorcery had been the undoing of far too many people. Uther had fallen prey to it. Morgana had been consumed by it. And Arthur….

If Emrys was to be believed, then Arthur had been saved by it.

“No.”

Gaius raised his eyebrows, and Leon elaborated, saying, “Arthur has taken incredible risks, placing himself before his people. I believe that at first, he never thought of what the consequences would be if he found himself losing whatever battle faced him. In his desire to protect others by risking himself, he never seemed to think of what would happen if he fell. Yet no matter the risks, he always prevailed. Perhaps some of that has been due to Emrys’s magic, but magic cannot indefinitely make a man more than he is at his heart. I do not doubt Arthur. His strength and courage have seen us through this far, and he will continue to lead us successfully, with or without the presence of a sorcerer in Camelot.”

Gaius smiled, but his voice, when he spoke, carried a grave note. “You would do well to spread that conviction to others. People have been whispering, as people do, and far too few seem to have your unwavering faith.”

Leon frowned and opened his mouth to ask what rumours were flying around, but Gaius continued, “You are a leader in your own right, Sir Leon. Lead by example and do your best to ensure that none doubt King Arthur.” He paused, then added, “And perhaps, if Gwaine chooses to frequent the tavern again tonight….”

Despite the situation, Leon couldn’t keep a small smile off his face. Gwaine’s visits to the tavern always proved fruitful in this venture. “I’ll be sure that he keeps his ears open,” Leon promised.

-|-

It didn’t sound good.

Things of this nature never did, of course, but Merlin had hoped Gwen had been exaggerating.

Apparently, she hadn’t.

If he didn’t know how easily rumours could spread or how even the most ludicrous ones could be believed, he’d be flabbergasted. Most people seemed to have convinced themselves that Arthur was losing his touch. That their king, who should be standing firmly against sorcery, had become bewitched and beguiled. Tricked. Enchanted. That he couldn’t be trusted to rule. 

He’d even heard one person say that blood was thicker than water and that Arthur was just trying to pave the way for acceptance of Morgana and her kind. The comment had been said with a sneer, and Merlin had stopped in his tracks when he’d heard it. Arthur just…. Arthur’s actions were being completely misunderstood if his people saw this as a way of bowing to Morgana. Arthur would _never_ yield the throne to her and let her be queen in all but name.

It made him sick to hear this said.

He’d always known of the animosity toward magic in Camelot, something encouraged by Uther, but he’d always thought he’d been able to detect an undercurrent of…. Not _resistance_ , exactly, but _reservation_. After all, there were many who would have remembered times, like Gaius, when magic had been openly used to the benefit of all. 

Morgana, in her insane show of magic and her lust for power, had as good as trampled those thoughts. She’d sought vengeance for all those with magic, but she’d done so with a blindness that had ensured she’d never reach her goal.

She had unwittingly managed to do what her father had not: cement within the people of Camelot an inherent wariness of magic that, with time, had begun to turn to fearful hatred.

This undercurrent may not be nearly as strong in the outlying villages, but here in the lower town…. It was strong here, and it was here where Arthur needed to draw his greatest support, for discontent here would spread more quickly and be felt more sharply than anywhere else. 

Some people who recognized him asked him if any of this was true, and he was able to start trying to lay the rumours to rest.

Others who clearly recognized him purposely made cruel, pointed remarks, slurs on Arthur’s name falling effortlessly from their lips.

Merlin held the bundle of glass vials tightly to his chest as he pressed through the crowd. He hadn’t really felt this unsettled, this alienated, since he’d first come to Camelot and witnessed Uther sentencing a man to execution for sorcery and seen the sentence carried out. He’d since been terrified and unnerved and everything else, but this particular feeling…. This particular feeling hadn’t surfaced since then.

He was surrounded by people who might well cheer on his death, even if he had joked with them the previous day. Their loyalties could switch in a heartbeat, and his supporters could fall away, and people would cease seeing him as _Merlin_ and merely see him as another sorcerer. Another sorcerer, like all the sorcerers before him, who had caused them so much grief with magic….

“Sorry,” Merlin mumbled as he was jostled into someone. He had the glass effectively wrapped, so he needn’t worry about it breaking unless he dropped it, but he certainly hadn’t expected to have so many people act unfriendly to him just because he was close to Arthur and they’d heard things about him that frightened them.

It was as if people were shutting out the past in their fear of the present. 

“Do try to watch where you’re going,” the man said without looking at him.

Merlin blinked and stared at the person he’d run into. “George?” He’d never seen George in the market. Come to that, he’d never seen George outside of the castle. 

George turned to face him then and gave him the disapproving stare he’d given Merlin every time he’d come across a completed task of Merlin’s that wasn’t up to his standards. “Merlin,” he said, inclining his head slightly in recognition. He turned back to the man he’d been speaking to, and Merlin felt…. Well, he felt more hurt than he thought he should.

He wasn’t best friends with George by any means, but they got along well enough, even if George didn’t approve of his antics. Or his polishing. Or his idea of breakfast portions. Or most of anything else he did.

But that was fine, because Merlin just teased George about his jokes and his formalness and tried to get him to say something unflattering about Arthur. He wasn’t yet successful in that last venture, of course, but they had a sort of rapport between them that was more comfortable than strained, for all that George would happily oust Merlin from his position as Arthur’s manservant.

George didn’t think he really deserved the position, and Merlin would admit that George did manage to do some things better than he, but they both knew that Arthur was happier with Merlin at his side, and George seemed to have accepted that.

So Merlin had never expected this level of sheer _coldness_ from George.

“What brings you out here?’ he blurted, hoping he’d somehow misread the tone.

George sniffed and fixed him with a look that told Merlin in no uncertain terms that George was finding him to be insufferable right now. “I’ve errands,” he said shortly. “Good day, Merlin.” And he turned away.

Merlin was stunned, and as soon as he could convince his feet to work, he hurried on. He’d report the bad news to Gaius—people’s conviction of the rumours was strong and showing no signs of lessening—and then they’d figure out what to do from there. 

Merlin was halfway across the courtyard when a hand caught his arm. Caught up as he’d been in his thoughts, it was a few seconds before he realized it was George, and he stared at him dumbly for a few seconds more before saying, rather bitterly for him, “Did you forget something?”

George fidgeted. “You left quickly. I thought perhaps you may have ascertained the wrong impression of the situation.”

He had come to rub it in? Merlin certainly hadn’t expected that of George. The man was dull as dishwater, but he wasn’t cruel. “I think I got the right impression just fine, thanks,” Merlin said. He turned to go, but George stopped him again.

“I had no choice, you know. The people recognize you too easily as Arthur’s manservant. If they thought I was too friendly with you, I’d never hear the full truth.”

Merlin blinked at George. “I’m sorry?”

“The lady Guinevere,” George said, “asked that I…gather some rather sensitive information in an unorthodox way, making it plain that no matter how uncomfortable I may find the task, it is absolutely necessary.”

Merlin’s eyebrows shot up. “Gwen sent you out to get information?” 

George nodded stiffly. “I remain a trustworthy yet unremarked figure within the royal household. I am the logical choice.” His gaze darkened, just slightly, and he added, “People did not hesitate to speak freely with me, no matter how inappropriate their musings. It was quite distressing.”

“Come with me,” Merlin decided. “We’ll tell Gaius.”

“I am to report only to Queen Guinevere.”

“We’ll make sure she’s there, too,” Merlin said, freeing one hand to grab George’s arm. “Come on. There isn’t any point in putting off bad news.”

George pursed his lips, but he didn’t dig in his heels, and in the end he said, “Very well,” and allowed Merlin to drag him away.

-|-

Percival had learned long ago to control his emotions. It had been necessary; even as a young boy, he had been bigger and stronger than his playmates. The few times he’d allowed himself to get carried away while roughhousing, someone had gotten hurt. It hadn’t been long before he’d thrown himself completely into his work, and not just because he’d fancied himself a man when he’d still been a boy. He hadn’t wanted to risk accidentally hurting someone who didn’t deserve it.

His strength was a boon now, of course, and his concentration—his ability to resist anger in a fight, to remain focused regardless of how crazy the situation or plentiful the distractions—made him a formidable ally in the field. 

But hearing what the people were purported to be saying about his king made his fists clench and his stomach twist in disgust.

He knew words could be as harmful as any sword, able to batter down barriers fists could not touch.

“We should tell everyone the truth,” Elyan said. “Put a stop to all the blatant lies.”

“We don’t know the full truth,” Leon pointed out. “There’s not one among us who doesn’t think that Arthur was holding something back from us. I’ve no doubt he had good reason for it, but we have to be careful what we say to others. We don’t need to do more harm than good.”

“We don’t have to tell them everything,” Elyan shot back.

“So you’d rather they question us and catch us out in a lie or perhaps allow them to realize that we know little more than they?”

Gwaine snorted. “It’s all in the phrasing. Trust me, if you tell the story correctly, no one will ever know you’re leaving something out of it.”

Percival arched an eyebrow at that. “You speak from experience.” It was an observation born from years of friendship. He knew Gwaine well enough to know when what was coming out of his mouth _wasn’t_ an exaggeration or a fabrication.

Gwaine shrugged. “I know how to tell a good story.”

Elyan grinned. “You spend enough time in the tavern for it.” Gwaine laughed, and the moment was forgotten, though Percival wasn’t sure that Elyan was wholly right. It seemed to him as if Gwaine was—

But there was no point in musing on that when they had far more important matters to consider. Even if Gwaine was holding something back, he would have his reasons for it—just as Arthur did in the matter concerning Emrys. Some truths were better withheld until the right moment for reasons ranging from spared feelings to strategy.

Agravaine’s treacherous secret had been strategic, as had Morgana’s. 

Percival expected Arthur’s secret—or perhaps more accurately Emrys’s, in Arthur’s keeping—was no less strategic but a good deal better for the whole of Camelot.

“Perhaps we’d best just remind the people,” Leon suggested, “of what Arthur has done in the past. He is our king. We support him in all times, not just when we have need of him to lead us from our darkest hours.”

“Y’see, that’s the sort of thing that _sounds_ good,” Gwaine said, “but doesn’t sway more than a few people. They’ll want proof, not reminders. Otherwise, it’s much more fun and interesting to believe at least some of those juicy rumours are true. Even if they don’t bode well, they give people something to talk about.”

“But how can we offer them proof to counter the truth? You told me yourself that Arthur was considering amending Uther’s laws.”

“More than considering,” Elyan said. “At least he was, before this.”

“Well, then?” Leon faced Gwaine again. “What do you propose we say that will not be turned to our detriment?”

Percival understood Leon’s scepticism on the matter—it was difficult to turn the minds of the masses in situations like this and more difficult still to keep the tides from turning back—but he could see Gwaine’s argument as well. 

The rumours were well-rooted in the truth. While the truth had been mercilessly twisted, it provided good grounding for the spreading gossip. Sharp defence alone would not be enough to see the growing gossip wither.

A piece of the story had begun all of this. Another piece would not necessarily finish it—Percival thought that was too much to hope for now—but it may be able to displace the first tales.

The people simply needed something else to say.

“We say what we need to,” Gwaine replied. “They want to talk about Arthur? Then we’ll give them something _real_ to talk about.”

-|-

When Merlin appeared at her door and said, “George is back,” Gwen didn’t question him. She merely followed him to the chambers he shared with Gaius. Once George—and no doubt Merlin, since he knew about George—had made his report, she’d find out whether Gaius had had any more luck than she trying to pinpoint who could have talked about Arthur’s proposal at the council meeting.

She’d had no luck in the matter at all, unfortunately. She’d casually contacted the councilmen each in turn, lending her support to Arthur’s proposal since she’d stayed quiet during the meeting itself, but she had yet to receive any replies. Once she did, she hoped that she’d be able to discern within their responses some sign of guilt, if any was to be had, or at the very least their current position on the matter.

To be frank, they needed to shore up as much support as they could.

George was the first to report what he heard, standing firmly with his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes fixed on her, despite the fact that the rest of them were sitting and had offered for him to do the same. He spoke in clipped, formal tones and kept a carefully schooled expression, but she could tell by the slight droop in his posture that he didn’t even want to be repeating the things he was saying. It was only when he’d finished speaking that he finally allowed himself to sit down, and she suspected he only did so then because he did not want to remain above her.

George was one of those people who seemed to have deliberately forgotten the fact that she’d once been a servant much like he.

Merlin spoke next, confirming what George had heard and what she had feared: the things she had overheard were unlikely to be isolated, and the feeling of distrust was spreading like wildfire. 

Gwen still felt that Arthur needed to press forward with the amendments to Uther’s laws against sorcery. If the changes were gradual, there would be less protest, and in time, perhaps Emrys would no longer have to hide in the shadows. She and Arthur could officially thank him, and he would see the peace between his people and all of Camelot be restored again as he had requested.

But any changes made official now would merely add fuel to the fire.

The council was to reconvene tomorrow morning. If they had not already heard the rumours, they would know of them by then—as would Arthur, for she couldn’t allow him to walk into the meeting unprepared. He had to know of the backlash this had caused if he was to mitigate it.

Gaius believed the same, although he cautioned her to be careful when she relayed the facts. She must neither downplay the situation—Arthur needed to realize its seriousness immediately—nor blow it out of proportion and feel it unsalvageable. 

It was highly unlikely, Gaius had continued, that any members of the council had spoken of the matters discussed at their meeting. They were all men who were well aware of the damage rumours could do, and they had far too much respect for Arthur and Camelot’s monarchy to blatantly breach the inherent confidentiality of their meetings.

He was less certain of the servants and aides in attendance. “It is quite possible,” Gaius said, “that whoever mentioned something was not aware of the consequences their actions would have. They may have repeated it in confidence themselves, not expecting that they might have put their trust in the wrong person or that they could be overheard. We’ve little choice but to question them all in turn tomorrow and hope that we can discern who is trying to conceal the truth from us.”

To Gwen, it sounded like something that pendant of Arthur’s had been designed for—ferreting out those who intended to deceive him—but she knew better than to even think about suggesting they take it out of the vaults for this purpose. Arthur had seemed so unnerved after its use that she feared some things were best left uncertain and unknown. 

“I shouldn’t like the punishment to be terribly severe if it was unintentional,” Gwen said, “though I wouldn’t be surprised if whoever it is were to be stripped of their duties and station in response.” That certainly would be fitting. Every servant worth their salt knew the importance of privacy and of things said in confidence. While Arthur wasn’t likely to decide the breach had been deliberate and treasonous if they found evidence to the contrary, she wasn’t so sure other rulers would let the culprit or culprits escape with their lives—or at least their tongues. Not when it was proving to have such disastrous consequences.

“Arthur’s judgements are fair,” Merlin pointed out. “He’ll do what is best for everyone. He always does.”

Gwen bit her lip. “I know, but that certainly doesn’t make the matter any easier.”

“Nothing will,” Gaius said quietly. “Particularly not when the situation is deteriorating so quickly.”

Gwen nodded. “Yes, I know. I….” She trailed off. “I’d best let Arthur know now. There isn’t really a way to break this to him gently, is there? I’ll have to…. I’ll have to just tell him. Merlin, would you run off and tell him I intend to see him for supper?”

“Of course,” Merlin said, getting to his feet. “I won’t let him make any excuses, either.”

As Merlin disappeared out the door, Gwen turned to George. “Talk to people here,” she requested, “and try not to let them lose their faith in Arthur.”

“I’ll make certain of it, my lady. It would give me the utmost pleasure.”

Gwen smiled. “Thank you, George. That will be all.”

George bowed to her and inclined his head to Gaius before disappearing as surely as Merlin had. When she was alone with Gaius, Gwen confided, “I’m worried.”

“We all are,” Gaius said. “We would be foolish not to be. If we were not, we would be underestimating a very dangerous thing indeed.”

Gwen didn’t need to ask what Gaius was referring to. She knew all too well the destruction a simple idea could cause. Coincidental evidence and subsequent accusations such as this could easily destroy lives. 

_“Her father consorted with sorcerers.”_

Uther had executed an innocent man because he thought he’d seen a connection with sorcery.

_“Arthur is under her spell!”_

He’d nearly ensured that she’d met the same fate because he hadn’t wanted to believe that she and Arthur had simply fallen in love—and because a poultice, magic or not, had turned up under Arthur’s pillow, and it had been easier to believe that sorcery was involved than that she, a mere commoner, could have captured the heart of the prince.

_“She has been found guilty of using magic and enchantments. She will be burnt at the stake.”_

It had been useless to argue in her defence when all Uther had been able to see was her apparent use of magic, though that’s not to say some like Gaius hadn’t tried.

_“My lord, at least give Gwen a fair trial.”_

_“I have all the evidence I need.”_

Even Arthur’s desperate announcement had done more to seal her fate than to prevent it.

_“I relinquish my entitlement to the throne!”_

_“My son would never do that. It is proof beyond doubt that you are enchanted. She will die, and the enchantment will be broken.”_

If the people of Camelot drew conclusions from mere coincidence and ill timing, they would be no less convinced of this than Uther had been of her apparent bewitchment of Arthur.

Emrys had saved her then—more likely than not from Morgana’s treachery—and nearly faced the pyre himself for his trouble.

She wasn’t sure if he could do something like that again, somehow managing to salvage the situation and save them all, and she was too afraid of Gaius’s answer to ask his opinion on that matter. She didn’t want to think that Emrys could do nothing for fear it meant none of them could do anything. She didn’t like feeling helpless.

Yet at the moment, she was.


	12. Chapter 12

Arthur was trying to make some final preparations for tomorrow’s meeting when Merlin interrupted him.

“What now?” Arthur snapped before he remembered who he was talking to. Two weeks ago, it wouldn’t have mattered. Now, it shouldn’t matter—if Merlin had his way.

But right now, to Arthur, it still _did_ matter. Because the idea of a powerful Merlin—and more specifically, what he now imagined Merlin had _done_ with that power—did not particularly sit well with him.

Merlin might not show his power, but he was all the more dangerous for that.

Look at how well such hiding had worked for Morgana.

Arthur still wished he hadn’t been fooled by her for so long. Yes, there had been moments where she’d seemed more withdrawn than usual, but she’d been through a traumatic experience. He’d thought it normal. He hadn’t thought it a sign that she was plotting to usurp the throne.

“Gwen said to say you’re to take supper with her, and no arguments,” Merlin reported, looking absolutely nothing like the sorcerer— _warlock_ —he was.

Arthur closed his eyes. Gwen perhaps thought he had some explaining to do. Or maybe she wanted to prod him some more, giving him encouragement and convincing him that he wasn’t making a phenomenal mistake. Or perhaps she wanted to try to get some more information out of him on the matter of Emrys.

“I’m not bringing your meal in here, incidentally. People are talking. You need to leave your chambers more often than you are now. You’re a king, not a hermit, and you need to—”

“I don’t need a lecture on kingship from you, Merlin.”

Merlin shrugged. “Maybe not, but it makes it no less true. People are still talking about—”

“I don’t care, Merlin.”

Merlin didn’t take the hint, glaring though it was. His expression, though, became mildly more serious. “You do care. I know you do. You _always_ do. You’re too good of a king not to listen to your people, especially since the matter with Tristan and Isolde. You’ve been building a strong connection with your people, Arthur. Don’t let this damage that.”

The matter with Tristan and Isolde, who had had no faith in him as their king. The time when Morgana had overtaken Camelot and he’d been forced to flee—

Although he still didn’t recall actually fleeing. He couldn’t fathom why he would have made such a decision, either. It wasn’t his place. His place was to stand and fight, to be out with his people. Even if his life had been at risk, he couldn’t imagine why he would have ever chosen to leave Camelot and clear the way for Morgana.

Arthur’s mouth twisted, and he wondered if Merlin and his magic had had more to do with his flight than he’d previously considered.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I come to my chambers when I do not wish to be disturbed,” Arthur ground out.

“Which is entirely too often lately,” Merlin said bluntly. “There’s no use arguing with me when you know I’m right.”

“ _Mer_ lin—”

“Just…. You always try to do what’s right for your people, Arthur. They supported you as their king when Morgana took the throne, even when she tried to starve them out as punishment for their loyalty, and you proved to everyone present when you pulled the sword from the stone that you _are_ their rightful king. But that doesn’t mean….” Merlin trailed off. Finally, “Remember that doesn’t mean you can’t stand strong without them.”

Arthur stiffened. What was _that_ supposed to mean? It had to mean something. He could tell that from Merlin’s tone—and the fact that he was willing to risk Arthur’s ire to say it, even after…everything.

Arthur had a feeling that, regardless of Merlin’s next words, the pit in his stomach wouldn’t be easily dislodged.

“It doesn’t matter that Gwaine and I helped you on your quest,” Merlin continued. “I mean, yes, you wouldn’t have succeeded if we hadn’t—Morgana’s armlet would’ve drained the life out of you if we hadn’t come after you and I hadn’t managed to get it off in time—but that’s not the point. What you’ve done since you’ve become king has more than shown your competency.” Merlin looked at him earnestly. “You’ve already begun making your mark on history, Arthur. You’ve set things in motion to unite the lands, and—”

Arthur knew how this went. “I’ll bring back magic and be Albion’s greatest king,” he said in a tight voice.

Merlin’s face fell. “But you will,” he insisted. “I know it.”

“You expect it,” Arthur corrected, “even though I myself have done nothing to earn that expectation. You expect it of me because you were told that that is what I will do and who I will be.” He still didn’t know _who_ had told Merlin—this Kilgharrah, perhaps, or some other Druid Merlin had most likely run into when he’d gone off on his own somewhere, or maybe even Gaius—but Merlin had certainly implied enough in the past that Arthur knew someone had told him something.

Of course, Merlin being Merlin, he tried to deny it.

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Arthur demanded. “I know the sort of king I’ve been, Merlin. I know what I’ve done, what you can consider my feats and my failures. I’m not blind to them. You cannot tell me that your faith in me is entirely based upon my actions and not what someone else told you.”

Merlin looked as though Arthur had struck him. “Don’t underestimate my faith in you, Arthur,” he entreated quietly.

Arthur closed his eyes. “I don’t,” he said, his voice low. “I just don’t believe I deserve it.”

“You do.” When Arthur opened his eyes, Merlin was looking at him steadily. “And you’ve shown me that for a long time, Arthur. You proved to me that you deserve every bit of my faith time and time again, as both prince and king in turn. When I was poisoned, you didn’t let me die, even though I was nothing more than a lowly servant. It was my place to die, but you risked death yourself to save my life.”

“Because you wouldn’t have been in that position if you hadn’t been trying to defend me,” Arthur argued.

Merlin ignored him again. “You did that again,” Merlin continued, “when you willingly drank what we both thought was poison in my stead.”

“Because I was the fool who’d brought disaster upon Camelot!”

“When I needed help to defend my village,” Merlin said loudly, “you offered me what your father refused.” Without giving Arthur a chance to get a word in edgewise, Merlin pressed on. “You defended me against your father when I could have been brought up on charges of sorcery.” Merlin grinned. “Right though they were, I still have my head because of you.”

“ _Mer_ lin—”

“You’d risk everything for Gwen, giving up this throne, this life, just to be with her if it came that,” Merlin said, pressing on. “You’d lay your life on the line for any of your people.” Merlin took a step closer. “You’re doing your best, Arthur, to be the best king you can possibly be. Of course I believe you will live up to your destiny. You’ve already done great things. You rule with both your heart and your head and are willing to mix tradition with change. You are a better king than your father was, even if your heart aches to acknowledge it, because you do not make decisions out of fear or rage.”

“Because I haven’t sent you away yet,” Arthur muttered, knowing Merlin would catch the double meaning of the words easily enough.

“Because you promised the Druid boy you would see change and because, now that the time’s ready for it, you’re beginning to introduce that change,” Merlin countered. “You’re forging your own way, Arthur, doing what your father never would.”

“I could well forge my way into ruin,” Arthur pointed out. “Even the best of intentions can lead to disaster.”

Arthur regretted the words the moment they’d left his mouth. The idea had been on his mind for a long while now—since the time he’d questioned Emrys’s intentions, well before he knew them to be Merlin’s. And from the look on Merlin’s face, he knew it. 

They could argue all they liked, but greater risks meant greater consequences, be they penalties or rewards. There was no denying that. A single mistake was all it took. 

Arthur didn’t want to thrust that responsibility onto Merlin. He kept as much of that responsibility from Guinevere as he could, bearing as much as was feasible himself. If Camelot was going to fall under his reign, it would be because of his own folly. If she rose as Merlin thought she would, he could take credit for his doings then. Not before. Certainly not when times were so uncertain.

Certainly not when there was an all-too-real possibility of Morgana out there somewhere, plotting her next coup, laying matters out in her favour so that when she finally struck, she would be successful.

Unless Merlin was a mind reader—and Arthur certainly hoped he wasn’t—chances were good that they wouldn’t know Morgana was pulling the strings until it was entirely too late to do anything about it.

In their moments of childhood play, Morgana had always excelled at strategy. She’d never failed to best Arthur, nor to remind him of that fact at every turn. He’d gotten better in the years since, of course, but so had she, and that was no comforting thought.

“Then quick action and clear thinking will prevent it from peaking,” Merlin replied quietly. “As long as you respond and don’t just react, any future disastrous situation will be like any number of ones in the past: circumvented, averted, controlled, or salvaged. With the number of ones we’ve faced, we’re getting quite good at all that.”

So why do I get the feeling you think another one of those times is upon us? But Arthur didn’t ask that question. He had no doubt that he’d find out soon enough, and he’d already learned that sometimes a few more moments of ignorant bliss could be valued, providing the situation at hand was not dire. He’d had a few revelations of late that he wouldn’t have minded having a bit later, as they just made this entire situation with Merlin seem more difficult than it already was.

Only, Arthur knew that some of these revelations would be no easier to deal with later, so he suspected it was just as well he had figured some things out now. It was a lot to take in at once, but surely it couldn’t get much—if any—worse. No one could keep _that_ many secrets for so long and get away with it.

Except for, perhaps, Merlin, since if Arthur had learned anything, it was that he should stop underestimating his manservant.

Which meant Arthur might still be ignorant of some very important facts and be blissfully unaware of that at the moment.

Which, consequently, meant that he just felt worse, because he didn’t want there to be more, and he suspected there was, which was why he was making a point of not confronting Merlin about any of it.

Even if it begged confrontation.

“I’d rather that was a skill born out of study than out of practice,” Arthur finally said.

Merlin shrugged. “I find practical learning more useful than theory myself.”

More useful, perhaps, but not necessarily more desirable if ill circumstances necessitated that practical learning. Then again, Merlin would never have been schooled like he had been. Arthur guessed Hunith had seen to it that Merlin had some useful skills. After all, she’d ensured that he’d learned to read and write and had sent him off to Gaius to learn the healing arts…and magic, as Arthur now realized. But though Merlin had had an opportunity many in his position were denied—Arthur was not so foolish as to think that learning one’s letters was a priority when there was work to be done—he had never had the equivalent of Arthur’s lessons.

Childhood games had been lessons themselves, stages by which to put into practice what had already been learned, testing theories and attempting to master the art of persuasion. His combat training had begun early as well and had served as a release of what would have otherwise been restless energy. But Arthur—with Morgana, more often than not—had been sat down with books and taught what he could not learn from mere observation alone. As the sole legitimate heir to Camelot’s throne, he’d known that the crown would be his some day, and he’d been appropriately prepared. History, matters of state, geography, genealogy…. The lessons had been endless.

It was a testament to Guinevere’s skill that she could rule effectively by his side without all his years of training, though he’d found her in conversation with Geoffrey and Gaius often enough to know that she was spending much of her time trying to learn what she never had as a serving girl.

Arthur sighed. Folly though it may have been in the eyes of others, he did not regret his decision to marry Gwen. “Tell Guinevere I’ll meet her in the dining room,” he said, well aware that Merlin would know he meant the small one near the great hall that had been frequently employed by Uther. He had made a point of using it at first, but whenever he or Gwen would not be keeping regular hours and were dining separately, he just found it simpler to forego the room entirely rather than see it used twice.

“She’ll be there by the time you get there,” Merlin said, and Arthur couldn’t quite tell whether it was a jibe or merely a statement. Then Merlin added, “And, just so you know, I’m not going to heat up your food again. If you’re late, you can eat it cold,” and Arthur knew it had been a jibe.

And though Arthur thought that Merlin could probably magic his food warm, he didn’t particularly want to suggest it. Nor did he feel like arguing—he was the king, and someone else would heat his food if Merlin was going to be so childish as to refuse—so he dismissed Merlin and made sure that he could meet Gwen in good time. A half hour later found him in the dining room with Guinevere seated at the table, a smirking Merlin to her side as he poured her her wine.

Merlin had no doubt informed her of his parting taunts, judging by the slight smile on her face, and took full credit for Arthur’s relative promptness.

The meal was still warm—some plates were even throwing off steam—which, Arthur had to admit, was a slight change from recent days. He knew Merlin had brought him hot food initially, but he’d so often been too absorbed in something else to touch it in ample time. It had never been worth the trouble of summoning someone to heat it up again, either, as he very often had little appetite.

To anyone else, the food would be good. To him, it seemed bland no matter the spices used. Nothing seemed to taste as it should anymore. He was really only eating because he knew he needed to keep up his strength; he certainly didn’t eat because he was hungry.

He’d find it strange how effectively his knowledge had killed his appetite if he hadn’t grown used to it by now. He would have thought that that was something that would improve with time, but it hadn’t.

Perhaps because the notion of Merlin as a heartless killer was even more unnerving than the idea of Merlin having magic and having—albeit inadvertently—murdered his father with it.

Surely anyone who got such a cold, twisted feeling in the gut at the mere thought of the horrific deeds of a former best friend would sympathize.

“Arthur.”

Something in Gwen’s tone caught his attention, and he looked up. He could tell from her expression that this wasn’t the first time she’d called his name. “Sorry?”

“Eat,” Gwen said, her smile not quite hiding the worry in her eyes. “The veal’s fresh, but it’s not about to bite you back.”

Arthur obligingly took a bite. Gwen looked at him for a moment longer before returning to her own food. He kept waiting for her to say something—he knew she would whether or not Merlin left—but it seemed that she was waiting until he had eaten enough to satisfy her. This knowledge did nothing to cheer him, for it clearly meant it was bad news and that Guinevere thought he would treat it as such rather than dismiss it and need to be cajoled into listening to what didn’t seem like a pressing concern.

Which meant it was more trouble.

Just what he needed. 

It seemed like an eternity had passed by the time Guinevere took a sip of her wine, set her glass down, looked over at him, and said, “The people are talking of you, Arthur.”

There was much more to it than that, Arthur knew. The people always talked of him, of both of them. That was nothing new. They were the Pendragons, and their decisions dictated Camelot’s policies. 

But Gwen had said _the people_. Much like Merlin had said _your people_. Camelot’s citizens. 

_“You always try to do what’s right for your people, Arthur.”_

That still sounded like a statement full of foreboding, at least from Merlin’s mouth. Now that he knew who Merlin was. Now that he had little choice but to take him seriously.

_“Remember that doesn’t mean you can’t stand strong without them.”_

Arthur reached for his wine, his mouth suddenly dry. “What are they saying?” he croaked after wetting his mouth to no avail.

Gwen hesitated.

She looked at Merlin, biting her lip.

Merlin said, “Some of the worst of it is that you’re secretly working with Morgana.”

Arthur stared at him, and Merlin elaborated, “Someone present at the last council meeting let something slip. We’re not sure who yet or if it was intentional, but the people know you’re proposing amendments to the laws against sorcery. No one seems to know how much, though, and everyone’s drawing their own conclusions.”

None of which were good ones, evidently. “Why would I ever help Morgana when I’ve seen what she’s done to Camelot?”

“Because everyone knows she’s a Pendragon,” Gwen pointed out. “She’s family.”

“She betrayed me,” Arthur argued, keeping his eyes locked on Gwen and making a point of not looking at Merlin. “She betrayed all of us. She’d see Camelot fall!”

“She’d bring back magic,” Merlin reminded him, “a lot faster than you would. Than you are, really. Except now that it looks like you’ve started….”

He trailed off, but he didn’t need to finish. “They think she’s twisting my arm. Perhaps even enchanting me.” Arthur wished now that Guinevere hadn’t waited until he’d been halfway through his plate. He felt worse with food in his stomach than he would have without it.

He knew the reaction could be bad. But he hadn’t expected people—the majority, from the looks Gwen and Merlin were exchanging—to go quite that far.

It was _Morgana_.

Allied with her he once might have been, but their days of working together had forever passed.

“Or that Emrys is,” Merlin admitted quietly, “even though he’s _not_.” He said this with such conviction that Arthur almost didn’t hear the desperation in his voice, the broken note that begged for Arthur to believe him.

Even though all Arthur had was Merlin’s word on the matter, since he certainly wouldn’t know if Merlin _was_ bewitching him.

Still, the news of Emrys…. “How do they even know Emrys is a sorcerer?”

Merlin shrugged helplessly. “Stories? We’re guessing Bronwyn. We don’t know for sure, but it’s feasible that she talked to someone else besides you while she was here. Especially if she didn’t believe you when you said you hadn’t found him.”

“So the people know I was searching for a sorcerer _and_ that I’m considering amending my father’s laws?”

“We’re trying to control the situation as best we can,” Gwen said helpfully.

Arthur had just enough self control to manage not to gape at her. Much. “How?”

“Keeping up morale,” Gwen answered, “and having some of the people we send out to gather information tell the truth about what is going on and remind them of all the good you have done in the past.”

“And I think Gwaine’s telling stories,” Merlin put in. “I’m not wholly sure about that—I didn’t hear it firsthand—but I think his objective was to give the people something else to talk about. We’ll know by this time tomorrow if it works.”

Wonderful. Arthur knew Gwaine’s definition of _stories_. With his luck, there were now rumours flying around about the time Merlin had needed to put an extra hole in his belt—and worse, given how well Merlin kept his secrets, or at least his most humiliating ones.

He really, _really_ hoped Merlin had never told Gwaine about the donkey ears.

In truth, though, he’d prefer people to be retelling embarrassing stories like that instead of repeating outrageous tales like his cooperation with Morgana when she’d shown no inclination to change her ways. That had been Gwaine’s intention, he supposed. He just hoped it would be worth it—that it would work—instead of merely adding fuel to the fire.

“So we’ll know the extent of the damage this time tomorrow,” Arthur said, not wholly believing his words. If Gwaine’s tactic had little effect, he wouldn’t be able to see the half of it. Still, he’d have an idea of the damage in the meeting tomorrow. And he’d have a choice.

He could retract his proposal or he could go through with it.

He could try to salvage his reputation or he could strive on regardless.

He could do what was easy or he could do what was right.

“We’ll have a better idea than we do now,” Gwen agreed cautiously. “I’m sorry, Arthur. People must have been talking from the first, but I never heard anything until today.”

Arthur looked at Merlin. Merlin just said, “I hadn’t heard anything, either.”

Which meant he hadn’t been listening.

Well, that wasn’t anything particularly new.

Not for Merlin, anyway, though he would have expected the great Emrys to keep a better ear to the ground.

“You’ll have to make an announcement if the situation doesn’t improve,” Gwen reminded him.

She was right, of course. She knew that much. It wouldn’t stop the people from whispering altogether, but it should stop them from doubting him.

At least until he made it clear that he was still intending to amend his father’s laws.

“Maybe even at the same time you tell them about the outcome of your proposal,” Merlin added, his carefully neutral tone telling Arthur he wasn’t certain Arthur wouldn’t just retract the lot of it.

The realization wasn’t as surprising as it could have been. Arthur knew Merlin’s faith in him was nigh on unshakable, but Merlin had made it quite clear that he had more faith that Arthur would make so many great changes and build a great nation _eventually_ than he did that Arthur would do such things right now. He wasn’t sure Arthur was ready to do any of it yet.

That was fair enough. Arthur wasn’t quite sure he was ready, either, with all the second guessing he was doing.

Maybe he _was_ rushing into things. Maybe now wasn’t the time. Maybe he needed to deal with the ever-present threat of Morgana before he set any of this in motion. After all, if she was no longer a force to be reckoned with, there wouldn’t be these ridiculous rumours flying around.

But his initial proposal did next to nothing when it came to affecting Morgana—just as it did little for Merlin, were he to be revealed. He had more reasons to press on with it than to abandon it. He owed it to the Druid people themselves. He knew them to be peaceful, after all.

And he owed it to the little Druid boy he’d seen drowned. However much he regretted it, however much—or little—he’d done to prevent it, it had been done, and the boy’s death was on his hands. His hands and his conscience.

Besides, he’d promised.

He didn’t particularly want to break a promise he’d meant whole-heartedly at the time of its making, especially not one sworn to one of the dead. He’d held off for a long time already; he wasn’t sure he dared to back down once he’d started the process. Not when he knew there could be others out there with equal reason to seek revenge. 

Dealings with departed souls were unnerving enough, let alone angry ones.

“Perhaps,” Arthur finally said. “I’ll decide tomorrow once it’s clear what I’ll be saying to them.”

“As you wish, sire,” Merlin said, earning a surprised look from Guinevere. Arthur had little doubt that she knew Merlin knew far more than he was telling and that she knew the two of them had more between them than they were willing to tell anyone else, even her. But he didn’t think her quite astute enough to stumble upon the truth. Not with how little she knew.

If she managed it, she would put him to shame.

But he doubted she _would_ manage it, even if he knew better than to underestimate her, if only because it meant Merlin was a good deal less careful than he appeared to be.

“I need to think on this,” Arthur said, pushing his plate away. “Forgive me, Guinevere, but I’ll be leaving you to finish your meal alone.”

From the look she was giving him, she’d expected as much. And, if he was any judge of her expressions, a small part of her was hurt because he still wouldn’t confide in her, even to tell her as much as she thought Merlin knew. 

But if she thought their current situation distressing, he didn’t want to worry her with the rest of it now any more than he had when he’d first learned of it.

“Of course,” Gwen said as he got to his feet. “I’ll see you in the morning then, I expect.”

Arthur wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t know what that meant, the implication and the question behind that statement. “At the meeting, if not before,” he confirmed gently.

Arthur hated to do this to her, to leave her out of the truth when he knew she deserved it, but he didn’t want to say anything to anyone.

Merlin was right: the fewer people who knew of him, the better. For now, at least. He could move far more freely, and the fact that everyone underestimated him was a boon. It was far more difficult for his enemies—Arthur was beginning to suspect Merlin had to have more than just Morgana, if only ones he’d gained by saving Arthur’s own life—to strike Emrys down when they didn’t know where he was.

It was a precarious illusion, to be sure, but Arthur was doing his best to uphold it because he’d come to realize that it held much of life as he knew it together, even if he could now see behind it.

The more people who remained fooled, the less likely it was to break altogether.

And if shatter it did, well….

If shatter it did, he’d be forced to action, and he’d have to decide Merlin’s fate once and for all.


	13. Chapter 13

At the council meeting, the subject of Arthur’s proposed amendments was, by unspoken agreement, saved until the bitter end. 

“I fear action now is unwise, my lord,” one member ventured once Arthur had brought it up. He’d already guessed from their uneasy looks earlier that they had all heard the preposterous rumours, but that statement served to confirm it. 

“The changes would offer no protection to Morgana,” Arthur said bluntly. “The Druids are a peaceful people and do not deserve to be persecuted in Camelot for being who they are.”

The councilmen exchanged glances. For a long while, no one spoke. In the end, the silence was broken by Gwen, who said softly, “You may have heard tell of the circumstances here a few weeks back. A young Druid boy came to us seeking our help. His family had been brutally attacked, and we learned later that they had been a delegation sent to give us a peace offering. Their gift to Arthur is at this very moment stored in the vaults beneath our feet. They are willing to leave the transgressions of the past behind in order to advance the relationship between our two peoples; would any of you deny us all that progress?”

The council now looked uncomfortable, and Arthur was proud of Gwen. Were Gaius here instead of tending to someone in the lower town who had—if Arthur remembered Merlin’s words correctly—a suspected broken arm, he would have had that quiet smile on his face that meant he, too, was proud of how much Gwen was learning. Of how fully she had embraced her tasks and of how well she would rule in his stead, if it ever came to that.

“The timing is simply poor, my lady,” the first councilman finally clarified. “Such a change, however seemingly small, risks destabilizing everything you’ve worked to build.”

Arthur knew what that meant, and he suspected Guinevere did as well. “It is a far less drastic change than the abolition of magic use itself.”

“Its lack has become entrenched in our society, sire. A reintroduction could have unforeseen consequences.”

He spoke as if the slaughter of the Great Purge was less disruptive than this would be, even though little would change for most.

At least as long as the amendments were restricted to the Druids.

“I understand your concerns,” Arthur said, “but I feel waiting would be little better. It could be seen as a rejection of the Druids’ offer, and I do not wish to foster more bitterness and tension between us.”

The eldest council member spoke now, saying, “We will not oppose you, my lord, whatever your decision. We would merely advise you to wait until your people are more amenable to such a change.”

They must have realized even at the last meeting that he would not back down from this proposal easily. He could force it on them, of course—he _was_ the king, as Merlin kept telling him—but he didn’t want to rule strictly without such consultation. He would appear rash, stubborn, inexperienced, and arrogant. Far from seeing him as too malleable, easy to influence and to control, they would doubt his competency. 

But he felt he was right in this case, and the step was a small one. Yes, the timing was rather undesirable. He couldn’t deny that. The news that he’d been searching for a sorcerer, coupled with any move to even remotely relax the laws on magic was, well….

He could understand the reason the rumours had sprung up, even if he didn’t like them.

But even if the support from the council was uneasy, it was support nonetheless, and the initial changes to the laws were agreed upon—or at least undisputed. 

And when the meeting was finally over, Merlin—who had managed to ensure that he was present this time, a little fact Arthur had tried his best to ignore—asked him in a quiet voice, “Want me to get started on that speech?”

Arthur sighed. “I’ll write it myself, Merlin.”

Merlin’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you sure? I mean, I know more about this than y—”

“I’m sure.” 

Merlin’s mouth snapped shut, his eyes dimming a little at the harshness in Arthur’s tone. “Of course, sire,” he said, and Arthur felt awful. Merlin’s tone hadn’t been defeated, but it had lacked Merlin’s usual teasing air.

“Merlin,” Arthur said as his servant turned away. Merlin stopped and looked back at him. “See to it that the people know I’ll be making an announcement this evening.”

A slight smile crept back onto Merlin’s face. “Yes, sire,” he said, his tone a good deal more cheerful than it had been moments before.

Gwen came up to him as Merlin slipped away. As with last time, she murmured a few words of encouragement to him. “You’ve made the right choice,” she said. “I know it in my heart.”

He did, too.

It wasn’t much, but it was a step in the right direction nonetheless.

And perhaps, once they’d fought this battle, the next would be easier. Perhaps next time, he wouldn’t have to worry about doubting councilmen, whispering commoners, or wary castle staff. Perhaps they’d see that this was indeed for the best, something that would stop Morgana’s advances instead of enabling them.

Or perhaps he’d merely caught Merlin’s tendency to indulge in wishful thinking.

“Let us hope,” Arthur said in a low voice to Guinevere, “that others come to feel the way you do.”

-|-

Elyan wasn’t entirely sure that Gwaine’s tactic was working.

Sure, everyone seemed happy to repeat the stories Gwaine had spread—embarrassing tales were always fun to tell when you weren’t the subject of them—but it seemed to do little to cut down on the sense of fear that had settled over everything. Yes, there were some who took some comfort in the stories, but others made noises about them being proof of Arthur’s incompetence. Leon had done his best to stamp down on those thoughts—he’d relayed without pause many of Arthur’s more glorious moments, where he had shown his skill and wisdom and dedication to Camelot and her people—but too few were put at ease by those stories.

Elyan had seen this sort of thing before, of course. Not in Camelot and not on this scale, granted, but he knew what lay behind it all as well as anyone else. There was a sort of mentality that took hold of people in these situations, and they simply didn’t want to see the truth of the matter. 

The worst of it was, in this case, that people didn’t seem to be afraid to speak openly of their distrust. It mattered not how treasonous their language, it seemed, if they thought the king had already abandoned them. The people who had once stood against Morgana thought they were taking the same stance again, deluding themselves into believing that the very king they had once defended had left them. It was a corrupt mixture of loyalty and treachery, some thinking themselves loyal to the king and others to Camelot despite the slanderous remarks being made.

According to Galahad and Bors, recently returned from patrol, the rumours were spreading—and becoming wilder still.

Now that they knew people were saying things beyond the lower town, they hadn’t a hope of containing the rumours. Granted, Elyan wasn’t sure that it was necessarily as bad as others seemed to think it was. The only other person who had ever tried to claim the throne at present was Morgana, and it was clear the people would never bow to her. The throne was Arthur’s and Arthur’s alone.

It wasn’t that simple, of course. Elyan knew that even without speaking of it extensively to Leon. When Uther had been unfit to rule, Arthur had stepped up and been king in all but name even before his coronation. If it became clear that people believed Arthur was unfit to rule for one reason or another, and if they feared Gwen similarly affected, someone would be appointed as regent. 

Elyan didn’t know if Arthur had any more relatives waiting in the woodwork to come out for such an opportunity, but he knew he wouldn’t be inclined to trust anyone he didn’t know, as Morgana’s influence clearly had reached further than any of them had anticipated.

He was on his way to find himself something to eat—for all that he enjoyed Gwaine’s game of seeing what he could sneak from the kitchens without the cooks knowing, Elyan wasn’t above going there himself and getting some food without any subterfuge—when he ran into his sister. Fresh from the council meeting, he’d guess, judging by the time and by the look of weariness that had already worked its way onto her face.

She gave him a brilliant smile, however, and he knew that look in her eye. She’d gotten what she’d wanted. In spite of all the gossiping, Arthur had not met resistance—or at least not enough resistance—to his proposed changes, whatever they precisely were. 

With any luck, that wouldn’t just be a ploy by the councilmen to give Arthur all the rope he needed with which to hang himself. Someone had leaked the previous meeting’s discussions, after all, and it would be easier to depose a king who had ill judgement than one in whom the people trusted.

And to be honest, Elyan wasn’t wholly sure his initial assessment of the situation was wrong. To him, it seemed as if Emrys _was_ manipulating Arthur into changing the laws. Perhaps he had saved Gwen’s life in the past, and Elyan was grateful for that, but he had threatened Arthur’s life a good deal more recently than he’d saved Gwen’s, and Elyan wasn’t about to forget that.

Perhaps Gwen would understand if she’d heard the old man, but she hadn’t. But even if she had, it wouldn’t necessarily have changed her mind about the entire matter. She’d made up her mind to trust the sorcerer. Elyan, who knew she gave her trust more easily than she should, particularly now that she held the position she did, just hoped she wouldn’t regret that. 

But Gwen had always been inclined to follow her heart over her head, even if she wasn’t a hopeless romantic who wilted at the first sign of danger. Gwen had fire in her—quite a bit—and woe to the one who wronged her and released it. But Emrys…. Emrys had earned her trust more quickly than Elyan would have expected.

Gwen was caring and gentle-hearted, but it had been a while since she’d been as gullible and naïve as she could look—though Elyan knew from experience that she used that to her advantage. There were times he’d swear she _enjoyed_ having people underestimate her. She liked proving herself.

“When’s the announcement?” Elyan asked.

“This evening,” Gwen replied, knowing him well enough to know precisely what he was asking.

“And it’ll put the rumours to rest?”

Gwen hesitated, and Elyan had all the answer he needed.

It wasn’t going to be that easy.

“The truth should stamp out some of the wilder ones,” Gwen replied carefully, “but you know as well as I do what happens when people talk.”

Elyan knew his expression was grim. “I’ll warn the others we’ll have to keep an ear to the ground. Of any of us, I’d think Gwaine’s the most likely to spot a change in mood.”

Gwen’s lips quirked into a little smile, although it wasn’t reflected in her eyes. She, too, knew they had to move cautiously. “Practice does make perfect.”

Elyan nodded absently in agreement. “Look, you’ll be careful, yeah? In case this does turn against us? I don’t want to see you….” He trailed off.

Gwen, thankfully, didn’t comment on his embarrassment over his concern. He was her brother. He was supposed to protect her. So was Arthur, of course, as her husband, but Arthur’s idea of protection tended to mean leaving her behind to tend to the wounded with Gaius while everyone else fought at the front. And Gwen was handy with a sword, but she’d need one to be able to use it, and she’d defend her patients before she’d think to defend herself.

She, like Arthur, cared little for her own life if her people were in danger. 

“I’ll be careful,” Gwen assured him, going in for a quick hug before pulling away. “I promise.”

Gwen did not have a habit of making promises lightly, so Elyan hoped she’d be able to keep this one if it came to it.

-|-

It was all going better than she had hoped.

Oh, Morgana did not enjoy the slights on her name, but she was well practiced when it came to keeping her expression schooled, and this certainly wasn’t the first time she’d had to say things she didn’t mean.

She’d admit that this wouldn’t have worked quite so well if Arthur had not played into her hands. Quite frankly, she had little idea why he’d propose any changes to the laws regarding sorcery at all. Well, little idea besides the niggling one in her mind that seemed to be gaining in likelihood the longer this all went on.

Morgana suspected that Arthur had succeeded where she had not and that he had discovered Emrys.

How fortunate for her, and how very unfortunate for her dear brother.

Emrys would protect Arthur. She had no doubt about that. More to the point, she believed Emrys would be willing to give up a few things in exchange for Arthur’s life—such as his identity. 

Gaius knew it. Arthur knew it. If she had to capture and torture them both, she’d find it out.

Emrys might have their loyalty as he had Alator’s, and they may be foolish enough to give up their lives for Emrys—as Alator surely would if she got his hands on him again, once she had the knowledge he’d betrayed her to keep—but if there was anything that would coax the old sorcerer from the shadows, it was a threat to Arthur.

A very direct, very pointed threat.

Emrys had made no move to stop her so far, and a part of her wondered if he even knew what she was up to, but she dared not underestimate him. He’d foiled her best laid plans before. He’d even gone to the care of ensuring that his actions would not necessarily cause Arthur to cast him in with her, as one of his enemies, for it surely would have been simpler for Emrys to kill Merlin than to go to the trouble of destroying the Fomorroh.

Granted, such a bold move—infiltrating her territory—could have been his way of flaunting his power, of saying that he was not afraid to challenge her for he was confident he would win.

She was a High Priestess of the Old Religion, yet he was to be her doom.

But if he thought he would be rid of her easily, he was sorely mistaken; she’d at least ensure that Arthur fell with her and that all of Emrys’s efforts to save him had been for naught. 

Her time to act further had not quite come, but it was near. She could sense it. Slouching amongst all the commoners of the lower town, careful not to give away her royal bearing, she could hear the tides turning in her favour. They whispered everything with an air of confidence, despite knowing full well it would be told to the next person at the earliest opportunity, for such things were not meant to be kept between the few. 

She still stood in the square when the announcement came that Arthur would be making a speech that evening to address their concerns, put rest to their fears and allay their doubts. They’d hear the truth of it and know not to believe the ridiculous rumours that were circulating.

Personally, Morgana thought it a futile effort on Arthur’s part, for if she was right, he would be doing little more than sealing his fate. She knew just what to say once he made his announcement. It was wonderfully simple to get Arthur’s loyal citizens to doubt his every action this way. And once he no longer had the strength of his people behind him….

Arthur would be lost.

Emrys might be unpredictable, but Arthur was not, and he was playing right into her hands. Once the announcement went wrong—unbeknownst to Arthur until it was too late, of course—she’d only need to wait a few more days before it all reached its breaking point. Once at its peak, she’d manipulate the crowd to her control as she’d done thus far, whispering the right things into the right ears, and Arthur would find himself powerless in his own kingdom.

She would have little trouble stepping in and striking, and then she’d secure Arthur and force Emrys’s hand.

He’d not be able to hide in the shadows any longer.

-|-

“Thank you,” Merlin said as he laid the last of Arthur’s supper on the table.

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him. “You expect me to thank you for completing the tasks that are expected of you now?” he asked.

Merlin rolled his eyes. Trust Arthur to misunderstand. If he’d meant to mock him, it would have been clear in his tone. And he’d have pegged his own name on the end of that to make his intention absolutely unmistakeable. _‘Thank you, Merlin. What a wonderful job you’ve done for me, getting everything I wanted without my even asking!’_ or some such thing. But that hadn’t been the case this time. “No, thank you for doing what you have and for not backing down.”

“I don’t make it a habit of backing down, Merlin,” Arthur said bluntly. 

“No,” Merlin agreed, “but this time you’ve begun the process of change, so again, thank you.”

Arthur grunted and sat down at the table. To Merlin’s knowledge, it was the first time he’d moved from his desk the entire afternoon. Arthur was still using ‘speech composition’ as an excuse not to face Guinevere—or anyone else, for that matter—until he had to, all because he could see the worry in everyone’s expressions that this might go horribly, horribly wrong. 

What sounded good in theory did not always pan out in practice.

“Still won’t save your skin if you’re discovered by anyone else,” Arthur muttered, stabbing at a piece of pork with more vigour than was strictly necessary.

“I know,” Merlin said quietly, “but it’s a start, and that’s all I asked you for.”

Arthur said nothing, even though he had yet to take a mouthful of either food or drink.

“Are you ready to hear more?” Merlin ventured after a few moments of watching Arthur stare at his food.

“More?” Arthur echoed.

“Of what’s happened,” Merlin clarified. “The time when you faced an immortal army, maybe, and I stopped it.”

“ _You_ —?”

“Stopped it, yes,” Merlin repeated patiently, easily overriding Arthur’s incredulous voice. “I needed to empty the blood from the Cup of Life. Once I did, the remaining soldiers were destroyed, for they’d forfeited their lives—their souls, their very selves—when they’d entered that agreement in the first place.” He didn’t particularly like the way Arthur was looking at him, so he added, “There’s a delicate balance with powerful magic, and anyone who tries to tip the scales in their favour faces the consequences eventually. Besides, I did have help. While you were off fighting and rescuing Uther and everything else, Lancelot helped me get to the throne room, and Gaius is probably the only reason Morgause didn’t manage to kill me.”

“Lancelot?” Arthur repeated flatly.

Merlin was suddenly wishing he’d picked a different story. He’d meant to avoid the subject of Lancelot for a little while yet; that was the reason, when Arthur had asked how long he’d known Agravaine to be a traitor, he hadn’t told the complete truth. He and Gaius had known—well, strongly suspected—since shortly after they’d dealt with the Dorocha and Agravaine had asked Gaius about Emrys. The answer Merlin had given Arthur—that he’d known since his father’s death—wasn’t _untrue_ , precisely, but it was easier to accept, and it had solidified Agravaine’s treachery in Merlin’s mind.

If he’d known he was going to be bringing up Lancelot so soon, he’d have told Arthur everything last time. If only he’d thought before opening his mouth, he could have begun a different story. When they’d fought off the army of skeletons, perhaps, that Morgana had set upon them to ensure their battle against Morgause and Cenred was fought on two fronts…. But it was too late now. “Yes. He knew. He caught me at it once and confronted me.”

“He took it better than I have, then.”

Merlin didn’t need to know Arthur as well as he did to know what that particular tone meant. “He wasn’t raised as you were, either, and it was in the middle of saving his life. A bit more obviously than I ever have yours. He never had magic, anyway, and he knew that magic was needed to kill the griffin. I was the only other one around.” Merlin shrugged. “I wasn’t about to let a new friend die, especially not after I already got him in so much trouble with Uther for forging his seal.”

“So Lancelot knew from the beginning.”

“Not intentionally,” Merlin reminded him, “but…yes. He did.”

“And yet you _still_ never thought to tell me.”

“Arthur, the first year I was in Camelot I was thinking more about how to save my hide and yours than about the best way to tell you I had magic.”

It did no good, however, for Arthur had soured at the mention of Lancelot. Brave and loyal as he had been, Arthur’s views of him had forever been coloured by the tryst with Gwen, only it— “It wasn’t Lancelot,” Merlin said suddenly.

Arthur glared at him.

“With Gwen,” Merlin elaborated, causing Arthur’s glare to intensify. “It wasn’t really Lancelot. It was a Shade. A…a soul brought back through necromancy. Morgana’s a High Priestess. If she’d talked to a few people, it would have been within her power. You remember all the dreams she had, Arthur, even when she was here. She knew you’d marry Gwen, and she wanted to stop that from happening. So she used a Shade to drive you apart, tugging on old feelings.”

“Clearly not old ones, then,” Arthur muttered bitterly.

Merlin shook his head. “I’m not so sure about that. Gwen…. She’d given her heart to you, Arthur. Even if she _had_ still been drawn to Lancelot, she wouldn’t have acted on those feelings.”

“She did, Merlin. I saw them together.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Merlin said. “She was enchanted.”

Arthur huffed. “You don’t need to tell me what I’d like to hear, Merlin, and I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t want to hear anything out of you besides the truth.”

“That _is_ the truth,” Merlin insisted. “I’d gotten suspicious, and after you’d banished Gwen and after Lancelot… after the Shade was of no more use to Morgana, I looked into things more.”

“Things,” Arthur parroted dully.

“I’d searched Gwen’s cell,” Merlin clarified. “There was this bracelet that I didn’t remember her having before. Gaius and I examined it. It would have…. Arthur, you have to understand, Gwen _used_ to have feelings for Lancelot, and then she fell in love with you. But the bracelet would’ve, well…. As near as we can guess, they would have magnified her old feelings, brought them to the surface so strongly that she couldn’t ignore them. She wasn’t enchanted to love him, Arthur, but she was enchanted so that she couldn’t sort out her own feelings and, well…. She acted on what she was feeling, swept up in the moment and….” Merlin trailed off. “It would’ve just…happened before she’d even realized it. Certainly before she’d come to her senses.”

Silence.

“I didn’t find out until after you’d banished her,” Merlin added, “but I’m not sure you would have listened to me even if I had said something.”

Arthur still said nothing.

Merlin was thinking—more strongly than before—that he should have steered clear of anything to do with Lancelot for a while yet.

“I just….” Merlin tried to figure out the best way to salvage the situation. “You needed to know,” he finally said. “If I’d found a way to stop it all earlier, I would have, but I didn’t.” He paused, hoping Arthur would say something, but when he didn’t, Merlin finished, “I’d said I’d tell you about the good and bad things, my successes and failures. That was one of the times Morgana won.”

“Not with brute force but with clever tactics,” Arthur murmured. Then, louder, “Thank you, Merlin. That will be all.”

Merlin hesitated. Arthur had yet to eat, and Merlin had taken to hanging around at mealtimes in hopes of having the conversations they needed to have. This one just hadn’t worked out as well as he’d thought it might. “Are you sure you don’t—?”

“That will be all, Merlin,” Arthur repeated pointedly. Merlin still didn’t move, and Arthur pushed the plate nearest to him away. “Clear this, then, if you want something to do, but otherwise you’re dismissed.”

“You haven’t eaten,” Merlin said automatically.

“I’m not hungry,” Arthur said, waving a dismissive hand and settling back down at his desk to, presumably, read over the draft for his speech one more time.

Only his eyes weren’t moving, weren’t darting over the lines on the paper, and Merlin knew it was all just a show.

But instead of saying something—because he knew this was one of the many times Arthur wouldn’t listen to him—he merely began picking up the plates he’d just lain out, thinking he could perhaps sneak a bit of the food for him and Gaius for later if nothing else.

Merlin left one small plate of food behind for Arthur, just in case, and then slipped out of the room to leave the king in peace.


	14. Chapter 14

Arthur tried to focus on his speech. He was due to give it in mere minutes, and he knew it could use some last-minute revisions. He likely should have let Merlin help when he’d offered, as Merlin had a knack for speech writing, but he’d wanted to do this for himself.

Unfortunately, chances were good now that he’d forget the whole thing the moment he went to deliver it, and his mostly eloquent speech would be reduced to a few (hopefully moving) sentences. 

Merlin had just _had_ to tell him about Gwen now.

The fact that he had her back didn’t make a difference. He’d still turned her away—and in the end, it had only been because she’d been enchanted. _Enchanted_ , like his father had thought he had been when Arthur had been caught with her. 

He was little better than his father before him, handing out judgements strictly on what he thought he saw rather than what he was actually seeing.

Gwen had never said anything about it, though. By unspoken agreement, they avoided the entire subject as much as possible, and the few times it did come up, they did not dwell on it. Yet now, Arthur wondered if she’d known somehow that…that she’d been….

He’d played right into Morgana’s hands.

If he had not run into Gwen at Ealdor, he may never have seen her again. She would have been a distant memory, and he would have married for the reasons his father thought proper: politics, not love. Marriage to form or solidify alliances, as was expected. He’d have wed Mithian after all, perhaps, once he’d been through his pining, or even the less gracious Elena. Whatever the mutual decision in the end, it would have been made for the better of Camelot, and it was unlikely things would look as they did now. 

He wondered at times like these whether his father would be proud of him and what he had done. He had ignored tradition, ignored the betterment of Camelot, and wed a commoner for love. He had defied the usual way of doing things of always rising above everyone else and brought back the round table. He bestowed knighthood on anyone who had proven themselves worthy of it instead of merely a handful of noblemen. And now he was directly disregarding his father’s own work and rewriting, bit by bit, the laws against sorcery.

He might not have done much yet in terms of the last one—indeed, he had done very little so far—but he’d set it all in motion. One small change to begin it all. One small change to rewrite the structure of Camelot herself, for her society, since the Great Purge, had rebuilt itself around Uther’s strict anti-magic laws.

He was on the cusp of making what could well be one of the most important announcements of his reign, and then Merlin had divulged _that_ particular bit of knowledge he’d been keeping secret.

He had no time to properly make peace with the past, with Gwen or with the memory of Lancelot. Oh, and _Lancelot_ — He’d known of the knight’s feelings for Gwen, of course. He’d never been able to bring himself to step in—to step up—because Gwen was a commoner, and surely Lancelot would have been better for her than he could ever hope to be. 

But then Lancelot had lain down his life, and Arthur had dared to hope again, despite knowing full well how foolish he was being. And then he’d finally worked up his nerve—to defy his father, tradition, and the past, as much as to ask Gwen what he truly wanted to ask her and to admit to the strength of his feelings—and he’d been _happy_ , and then Lancelot had come back and everything had fallen to pieces.

Only it had never been Lancelot at all.

And Arthur had been too preoccupied, too worried over what might happen and what _was_ happening, to notice. He was _supposed_ to be prepared for such things, even if such things weren’t heard of. And he’d allowed his joy of having Lancelot back be overtaken by his jealousy, and—

He should have known better. Lancelot had never done such things before, once he had known how Arthur felt for Gwen and Gwen for him, and he certainly would never have dared to try to come between them.

Yet when it appeared that Lancelot had, Arthur’s fury had overtaken his common sense and happily rewritten his opinion of Lancelot’s character.

But he’d been wrong about Lancelot, just as he’d been wrong about Merlin. 

All because he couldn’t see what was right in front of him and because he refused to make the little connections that would make everything clearer.

There was a knock at his door.

Not Merlin, then, as Arthur could count the number of times he’d actually thought to knock on one hand.

“The people are gathered, sire.” Gaius’s voice. “It’s time.”

A part of him really wished it weren’t.

Arthur looked down at his speech one last time, not even remembering now how it was supposed to begin. With a sigh, he got to his feet and strode quickly across the room. Gaius was waiting for him outside his chambers, and Arthur caught sight of a familiar-looking yellow liquid in a small vial. He shook his head. “I’ve no need for it now, Gaius. Perhaps later.” _If things get worse._

Gaius raised his eyebrows but did not argue, instead tucking the vial away. “The courtyard is full,” he said, which did nothing for Arthur’s sudden attack of nerves and made him question his wisdom in refusing the calming draught. “Gwen is waiting to make her entrance with you.”

“And Merlin?” Arthur croaked, suddenly wishing he had something with which to wet his mouth—wine, water, anything.

“I sent him down to assess the mood of the crowd,” Gaius replied evenly. 

Arthur hadn’t felt this uneasy since he’d ordered his first execution. Then, it had been on Agravaine’s recommendation—and goading, if Arthur were perfectly honest. But Elyan had been wrong when they’d all been in the throne room two days ago. This was Arthur’s decision alone, and it was a decision which would influence Camelot’s legendary rise or her unspeakable fall. The fate of the kingdom rested on his shoulders.

He couldn’t afford for this to be a mistake.

He couldn’t afford for the timing to be wrong, as the councilmen believed.

Merlin thought he’d turn out to be Albion’s greatest king, that he was in fact the Once and Future King—he still didn’t know what that was supposed to mean—but Arthur rather feared that if he wasn’t careful, all of Merlin’s work thus far would be for naught. To be fair, he wasn’t sure precisely how far Merlin’s actions reached. He knew little of what Merlin had done beyond keeping him and their friends alive, slaying a few magical creatures and upsetting a few of Morgana’s and Morgause’s plans, but Arthur was now quite convinced Merlin had done as much for Camelot as he had.

And Arthur had been serving Camelot much longer than Merlin had.

He just wished that Merlin’s deeds—or more specifically, his means of accomplishing them—didn’t seem so contrary to his character.

Or that they didn’t belie what Arthur currently envisioned any revisions of the laws forbidding sorcery to be.

Guinevere caught his hand when he met up with her. “You’ll do well,” she assured him, giving him a brilliant smile. “I know you will.”

Arthur, who by now didn’t remember a word of his speech, appreciated her confidence. He gave her a quick kiss before turning to the doors and walking out onto the balcony. His father had stood in this very place more often than Arthur cared to remember, sending sorcerers to their deaths. 

Arthur wondered now, as he never had before, just how many of the accused truly had had a grasp of magic—for if they had, would they not have used it to escape?

Merlin had.

But then again, Merlin was powerful, and it was entirely too possible that any magic-users Arthur’s father _had_ condemned to death could command only a little magic, enough to sooth aching joints or keep the last little bit of firewood burning longer than it should but not enough to save themselves from the death sentence they faced.

The faceless crowd below was just as large as it had ever been for an execution, and Arthur felt grateful; he hadn’t realized how much the doubts of his people had distressed him. They still had enough faith in him to come. They’d hear the truth from him now. They’d understand, and they’d stand with him rather than surge against him.

Somewhere, lost in the sea of faces, Merlin stood.

A part of Arthur wished he could pick Merlin out. After all, if it weren’t for Merlin’s pointed reminders or his…his magic, Arthur may not be making this announcement quite yet. He might have been waiting for a better time, as the council had suggested. He might have still been putting it off because it was difficult and because he didn’t want to think of his father’s disapproval in this venture.

Merlin hadn’t forced his hand to press forward now, however. Arthur quite readily believed what he and Gwen had told the councilmen. It would not be prudent to ignore the offering the Druids had given him—especially when the cost to give it had been so great.

And he had promised, and it had been more than a hollow vow to save his life and that of one of his knights.

Arthur began speaking with a confidence he did not feel, and he scarcely remembered the words after they left his mouth. He thanked those who had gathered and acknowledged the rumours that had been circulating of late. He made it quite clear that he would never bow to Morgana and that he was not being influenced by her ideals.

And he spoke the truth about what he was doing, just as he had to the council.

“My father,” Arthur said, “persecuted the Druids for the way they chose to live, but I do not believe Camelot should be so cruel as to attack those whose practice of magic is saturated within their ways of life when they mean us no ill. From this day forth, Camelot will be at peace with the Druid people, and they will be able to travel freely and trade with us as they once did.”

Murmurs and cheers alike, a disquieting mix when the former could not be completely drowned out by the latter.

Time to tell more than he’d planned, then, if only because nothing would still the rumours but the truth itself.

“My recent search for the man known as Emrys,” Arthur continued, “was sparked by the last contact I had with the Druids. I have since learned that although the man is known to them as a sorcerer, he is loyal to the kingdom that would see him dead.” Arthur paused, noting with satisfaction that the murmuring had died away to silence.

If he said now what he had told Bronwyn, he would be repeating an outright lie. It would be easy enough to say. _‘My search was unsuccessful, and I am inclined to believe that he does not exist.’_ Arthur, however, didn’t want to say the words. If he were caught out in a lie, his people might be inclined to believe that the truth of what he had said before stood for nothing. 

“I was unable to bring the sorcerer to light,” Arthur said instead, which really wasn’t a lie as Merlin still stood quite firmly in the shadows at the moment, “but it is my belief that the Druid people are not mistaken. I have no wish to bring harm upon the sorcerer who may have very well saved my life and my kingdom.”

The muttering started up again with renewed force, and Arthur wished he could see Gaius’s face and know precisely how much damage he had done. He had not told as much to the council; there, he had minced his words and said as little as possible. Here, he’d allowed himself to be carried away in his defence for Merlin as he had so often before.

He could not unsay what had been said; he could merely make the best of it.

“You are all quite aware,” Arthur said carefully, “that I have not actively sought out sorcerers as did my father before me. This in no way means I have any intention of standing back and letting those with magic destroy our kingdom, and I will not see it fall to the ravages of Morgana. Yet over the course of my search, I have come to believe that not all magic and magic users are to be inherently distrusted. Though Camelot’s bans still currently stand, there will come a time in the future when they will be amended to reflect the change in our kingdom. It will be a change that will see magic use fairly judged and its misuse punished as with other crimes, where the misunderstood need not fear for their lives and where the benefits of small acts of magic can spread throughout the land once again.”

Another swell of muttering.

Guinevere stepped up beside him but didn’t say anything, merely taking his hand and giving it a good squeeze. _Be careful_ , it meant. But it was a bit too late to be careful. At any rate, he had already made up his mind. He’d made it up a long time ago.

And Merlin had realized that even before he had. 

_“I expect that this will be the end of secrets between us, should I choose to allow you to stay,”_ he’d said.

_“Sounds to me like you’ve already made up your mind,”_ Merlin had quipped back.

Arthur had been thinking short term. He’d let Merlin stay for now, keep his secret for now, until he’d sorted things out. But Merlin had been right in thinking Arthur had made up his mind for good, that it wasn’t just a temporary matter to be re-examined later. In truth, he’d made his decision even before he’d properly confronted Merlin and simply hadn’t admitted it to himself. He’d even told Gwen. _“I don’t want to see the back of him either.”_

He was _not_ going to let himself be forced into losing a friend who had shown how much he’d earned that friendship time and time again just because he didn’t want to rush into things.

Oh, Merlin still had eons’ worth of explaining to do, but Arthur was going to make sure Merlin had the time to do it.

Merlin—Emrys—had helped him. Arthur didn’t necessarily approve of his methods, but perhaps he’d misjudged something. Perhaps, once Merlin explained himself, it would be easier to swallow. And if not, then Merlin…. If not, then Merlin would have to await judgement on his crimes, just as Morgana would hers if she ever turned up again once he’d changed the laws. 

Arthur didn’t like the idea, but he liked it a good deal better than being rid of Merlin altogether. 

Besides, if he was to think the worst, keeping Merlin by his side was better than sending him away. It was better to have him where he could keep an eye on him. If he was astute enough, he would not be blind to any changes as he had been in the past.

“We have lived too long in fear,” Arthur elaborated, “and we have let it cripple us instead of teaching us to be more careful. I am well aware of the dangers of sorcery, but I do not feel we should forevermore be blind to its benefits. For the betterment of Camelot, we must embrace change once more. We need not mistreat those who would help us. As such, I feel we must examine the laws against sorcery more closely.”

Guinevere spoke her own appeals before the hum of the crowd could grow any louder. It was a dull roar by the time Arthur delivered his closing remarks. The inattention made him wonder whether he could call this venture a success. 

He didn’t know whether he’d lain to rest the rumours or provided the fuel for them to burn for a long time yet.

He didn’t know whether he’d made a crucial mistake.

-|-

It was better than she could have hoped. Arthur, fool that he was, had gone further than she’d expected him to. He’d as good as declared magic acceptable.

Under different circumstances, she might have been pleased. After all, a Camelot which did not shy away from the sight of magic but instead embraced it was something _she_ strived for. But Arthur didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t appreciate magic. He didn’t understand the rituals or the care needed when casting spells. He had no concept of the balance upon which it hung, nor the sheer power it granted its user.

He still had the blood of her kin on his hands, and no amount of apologetic action would wash it away.

He was only doing what he was to protect Emrys, which did nothing but confirm the fact that he had discovered the sorcerer’s identity. It was almost laughable, really, Arthur trying to protect the sorcerer who had infuriatingly managed to protect him time and time again. Anyone with any sense could see what he was attempting to do. It was as plain as day.

Fortunately, Camelot’s citizens weren’t quite as unobservant in this matter as they had been in others.

It was simple to encourage them. _“He does not act as he has in the past,”_ she’d murmur. _“No son of Uther’s would allow such things.”_ Sometimes her accusations would be less veiled. _“His ear has been bent by another. He is little more than a puppet for the sorcerer he seeks to protect.”_ Other times, she’d play the role she’d taken on days before. _“The king speaks lies. He told me himself that he thought Emrys nothing more than a mere story. How are we to trust him when he speaks to the contrary now?”_

Whatever she said was received readily enough. She always said something along the same lines, and it always served to nurture the growing doubt. Arthur had hoped that his announcement, his insistence that he had no contact with her, would stamp out the seeds she’d sown.

She wasn’t about to let that happen. Not when she was so close, the time to act so very near to being ripe. And soon, Arthur would regret his words, for they had done nothing but seal his fate.

-|-

Merlin could read the unease in the crowd around him easily enough. No one seemed quite sure what to think. Some thought the king wise; others, foolish. Some thought his determination, his actions, admirable. Others called such actions deplorable. Still others insisted that they were signs that he was enchanted.

He hadn’t expected the mood to be particularly enthusiastic by any means, but he had hoped it would be more decisively positive than this.

At least he didn’t have to say the reaction was decisively _negative_ , although Merlin didn’t think either Gaius or Arthur would be pleased with the torn nature of the crowd.

People were most divided over the last issue Arthur had brought up, the one which had caught Merlin by surprise. As far as he’d known, Arthur had been simply going to address the rumours regarding Emrys in passing. He’d thought the speech, as a whole, would be focused upon Arthur’s amendments regarding the Druids.

He’d never dreamed Arthur would expand it.

He was happy, of course. Arthur wasn’t going to be an absolute prat and do something he’d regret. Even though he’d done nothing official so far, he’d made it clear that, should Emrys come to light, he wouldn’t be locked up in a cell to await his death or banished on the spot. That meant, of course, that no one else could pressure Arthur into making such a judgement call. Admittedly, that is what had worried Merlin more than any decision Arthur might have made on his own.

Arthur might be the king, but the laws were in place, and he couldn’t blatantly disregard them on a whim.

Truthfully, the only thing keeping the grin off Merlin’s face now was the knowledge that bright smiles would stand out in a crowd full of furrowed brows and pursed lips. Even with a cloak hood pulled low over his face, he’d be recognizable enough as the king’s manservant if anyone got a good look at him. And even if he weren’t, such an open display of support wouldn’t be the best thing at the moment, what with the mood of the crowd being what it was.

The things he overheard when he was trying to (discreetly, of course) make his way to a side entrance of the castle, even though they were only snatches and snippets of conversations, spoke volumes. 

Merlin sought out Gaius first, not wishing to tell everything immediately to Arthur. He’d have to tell him sometime, of course—and sooner rather than later—but Gaius might have a way of saying things that made it all seem less…fruitless.

Of course, Merlin hadn’t opened his mouth once he was back in the chambers he shared with Gaius before Gaius said, after only glancing up from his books on the table, “Arthur’s speech did nothing to dispel the rumours.”

It was not a question.

Merlin, knowing Gaius had read his expression, nodded glumly. “Doesn’t seem like it,” he admitted, “but it is early yet.”

“But not so early that we cannot see what is coming,” Gaius said grimly, “and all due to a loose-lipped aide if my suspicions are correct. Do you recall the boy Balin?”

Merlin nodded slowly. “He’s the one who wishes to take a post here in hopes of becoming a knight in the future.”

“He’ll have a tougher time of that now,” Gaius said. “He said something to those he fancies as his friends, who in turn repeated what he’d told them in confidence to the guards, who informed our recent visitor.”

Merlin frowned. “Bronwyn, the woman who was worried about Emrys?”

“Indeed,” Gaius confirmed. “I’ve no doubt now that she repeated something of this to others. It is little wonder that the tales are not wilder than they are.”

Merlin grimaced, being well aware of how the truth could be twisted once it became gossip. Even in Ealdor, it had been worrisome enough that he’d been extremely cautious—on his mother’s insistences—not to reveal his magic to anyone. That Will had found out had been equal parts boon and bane, for while he then had had a confidant and playmate his own age, he had had to take greater care that no one else discovered his secret.

Just because he had not faced death for the practice of magic in Cenred’s kingdom, it did not mean that he would have been welcomed.

He’d have faced scorn and taunts from the other children, lashings out of fear from the adults who better understood the power he had. Had Cenred discovered him, he might have been taken away. His mother had never elaborated on could have happened, but Merlin’s imagination had supplied more than enough terrifying scenarios to keep him in check. 

Sorcerers were feared there, a different sort of fear than that which pervaded Camelot. Ealdor was one of the more distant outlying villages, near the border with Camelot, so Merlin had not been quite as aware of it as he might have been. Hunith had cautioned him again before he’d come to Camelot, and he’d heard her say that magic was outlawed there, but until he’d arrived, the reality of it hadn’t quite… sunk in.

She had been sending him to Gaius, after all, to better learn to control his magic. Even she hadn’t known she’d been sending him to meet his destiny. She’d thought he would be the court physician’s apprentice; she hadn’t thought he’d become so close to the crown prince—and that much closer to danger—by being made his manservant.

Merlin regretted nothing of it, though. He may no longer be the naïve boy he had been upon his arrival, and he’d since done things he wasn’t proud of, but there was little he would change, given the opportunity.

He might not be entirely happy with how Arthur had found out his secret, nor all the circumstances surrounding it or their current dilemma, but he was well aware that it could have been much worse.

“So we’ve no good news to tell Arthur?” Merlin asked.

“I fear not,” Gaius replied.

“Has George reported in? Maybe he heard something positive.” Merlin wasn’t quite able to keep the note of desperate hope out of his voice. He hadn’t told Gaius all he had heard, but it was clear he didn’t need to. But maybe, just maybe, he’d missed something. Maybe he’d stood in a part of the crowd that had been particularly loyal to Uther. Maybe—

“From what I understand, he heard precisely what you did,” Gaius replied, dashing Merlin’s hopes. “I informed him that we would tell Arthur and Gwen. It was perhaps my imagination, but I do believe he looked grateful.”

Merlin pulled a face. He wasn’t looking forward to telling Arthur the news, either. “We’d better get it over with, I suppose,” he said dully.

Gaius gave him a sympathetic look. “Waiting will make the pain no less,” he said simply. “Come, Merlin. They’ll be in the royal chambers. Gwen knew to wait for us, and she’ll have told Arthur all I have not.”

Merlin sighed but started back towards the door. “Do you think we’ll be lucky this time? That we’ll have been twisting ourselves into knots worrying over something that’ll come to nothing?”

Gaius, in response, handed Merlin what he recognized as a calming draught and said, “Arthur believed he might have use of it later.”

Merlin pocketed it unhappily, knowing it was too much to ask that this would amount to nothing. Words could be just as destructive as swords and all the more dangerous for it, given how often they were underestimated. Though they worked in subtle ways, the destruction they wrought was nothing of which to be dismissive.

Wish though he may, these circumstances would be no different.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the chapter where the story gets a little bit darker, so fair warning. Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to comment on this story!

Three days passed before it came to a head.

They’d suspected it was coming, of course, no matter what they’d tried to do to stop it. But it had grown out of their control. Nothing they said—and especially nothing Arthur said—had done anything to waylay it. 

To be fair, it had all looked more hopeful at first. The mutterings and mumblings had died down, and Merlin had optimistically thought that that meant they were contained, that it wasn’t going to spread further. Looking back at it, though, he wondered if he hadn’t still been a bit too pleased with Arthur’s announcement to allow himself to see the damage it had done.

The morning after that announcement, once it was just the two of them again, Merlin had thanked Arthur for what he’d done. It had been nothing more than a verbal commitment, but it was a sight more than Merlin had seen out of Arthur since he’d gotten back from Ealdor. Merlin had been able to imagine the risks, of course, and the potential consequences of Arthur’s speech—the ones they currently faced included—but he’d overlooked all that in favour of what it meant: that the tension between him and Arthur wouldn’t necessarily build to a breaking point.

However, Arthur, without even meeting Merlin’s eyes, had just said, “Don’t thank me yet, Merlin.”

And now Merlin was realizing precisely why Arthur had said that.

He was part of a small gathering in the throne room, and he stood in his usual place by Gaius’s side. A few of the knights—including Leon, Percival, Elyan, and Gwaine—stood farther back, and Arthur and Gwen were at the front. In the middle of the floor stood Lord Hywel, the one who had requested this audience with the king.

And the one who was apparently the bearer of bad news.

“Unfit?” Arthur repeated. 

Even though Arthur wasn’t talking to him, Merlin cringed slightly at his tone. He knew what was coming next. If Arthur _had_ been speaking to him, now would be when he’d want to duck to avoid the object that would have been sailing towards his head. 

“ _Unfit to rule_?” It was a bellow this time, one all too reminiscent of Uther. Thick wooden doors and stone walls or not, that would be heard for quite a ways in the castle.

“That is the belief of the Council of Lords at present, sire,” Hywel said without flinching. “Your present condition calls your judgement into question.”

“My _present condition_?” Arthur echoed in a low, dangerous tone.

“I very much doubt that there is anyone here who would deny that you have not been yourself as of late, sire.”

That was all too true, and from the furious look on Arthur’s face, he knew it. “Then Queen Guinevere will rule in my stead,” he said, sounding as if he were forcing the words out through his teeth. 

Hywel shook his head. “Begging your pardon, sire, but we have already chosen a regent amongst ourselves, one who is free from your influence.”

Gwen’s eyes flashed, though she kept her anger out of her voice. “I have done nothing that would cause you to think I’ve taken leave of my senses.”

“You have not, my lady.” A pause. “However, given the delicacy of the situation, we believe it best if someone who better understands the gravity of the situation and those that are likely to arise were to lead Camelot for the time being. We fear your common upbringing has not prepared you for such a situation. In addition, it is in everyone’s best interests for the people of Camelot to know with absolute certainty that their leader is not—” here, a slight hesitation “—collaborating with the king.”

Merlin figured Arthur looked as if he wanted to disband the Council of Lords then and there, but it had been formed so that Arthur would better know the state of each region of Camelot whence the respective lords came. For that purpose, it was still quite effective. Arthur had managed to head off many a problem before a grievance grew into something truly serious—be it on behalf of either a lord or his people, the latter of whom would often make their satisfaction known to knights in the area or, on occasion, trek to the citadel for an audience with Arthur himself. 

As it was, he might settle for stripping Lord Hywel of his lordship.

But the Council of Lords would never take action like this without conferring with others, and Merlin wondered if some of Uther’s advisors—whose advice Arthur ignored as much as he took it, these days—had agreed with this particular venture. It was quite possible that even the men Arthur had met with just four days ago had lent their support—even _after_ saying they would not oppose him.

Not openly oppose him, it appeared.

But with the growing rumours, it seemed no one wanted to trust the very person to whom their loyalty had previously been unshakable. 

“Understand, sire, that this arrangement is merely until we can ascertain that you have not been compromised in any way.”

Arthur said nothing, though the fury was etched in every feature of his face. Finally, “And who is my replacement to be?”

“The Council chose me,” Hywel replied, meeting Arthur’s glare with a steadiness that meant, to Merlin, he did not fear the king’s wrath.

Why would he, when he had undoubtedly gone behind Arthur’s back to make everything official?

Merlin felt awful. This shouldn’t be happening. It wasn’t _meant_ to be happening. Arthur was the Once and Future King. He was to be the greatest king Albion had ever known.

He couldn’t be that king if he was deposed now.

Merlin bit his lip, wondering where he’d gone wrong. He should have found a way to stop this somehow. There must have been a way, some opportunity he’d missed….

The warning bell began to toll.

Arthur scowled at Hywel and then pressed passed him, stalking over to the knights. He exchanged a few quick words with Leon, who led the majority of the knights out of the throne room—out to fend off whatever trouble there might be.

Gwaine caught Arthur’s eye and, by unspoken consent, he and Percival remained behind. No one had come to announce the threat that had been uncovered, and Arthur couldn’t be expected to meet it alone if it made it this far. Arthur, of course, moved to follow the knights—or at least track down someone who knew something, Merlin would guess—but Hywel blocked his path.

“My apologies, sire,” he said, “but it is best if you remain here.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

Hywel hesitated. “I’m afraid not.”

“Precisely.” Arthur pushed past him, but one of the doors—both of which had been closed once the knights had passed through—opened again to admit one of the guards.

“My lord,” he said breathlessly, addressing Arthur, “we are under attack.”

“By whom?”

There was a very slight pause before the guard admitted, “We do not know, sire.”

“You don’t know?” Arthur repeated flatly. 

“We’ve not seen the intruders, sire. We’ve only…. There are the bodies, sire.”

Arthur stiffened. “How many? Where? How have they been killed?”

“It appears….” The guard trailed off, and for a split second Merlin thought he was trying to find the best way to describe it.

Then he realized the guard was choking. The signs of the man’s distress were becoming increasingly evident. He started forward as the man’s hands flew to his throat, but Gaius put a hand on his arm and shook his head. Merlin got the message: _It’s too late_. Were the man’s state not magically induced, they could have done something.

As it was, he couldn’t do anything without revealing himself, and perhaps not even then.

But he couldn’t reveal himself.

Not yet.

Instead, he had to stand back and watch a man die.

Arthur spun to face him as the guard collapsed, eyes clearly searching for answers, and Merlin could only give him a minute shake of the head. He didn’t know, even if he could guess, but now wasn’t the time.

Arthur turned to look at Percival then, barking out, “Get Guinevere out of here.”

“Arthur,” Gwen immediately protested, “I can—”

“Go,” Arthur commanded sharply, overriding her. “You don’t even have a sword, Gwen, and I doubt you can move as quickly as you’d like in that dress.”

Gwen swallowed her protests, nodded once, and turned away from the front doors. In a few quick strides, Percival fell in step with her, sword drawn and at the ready, and they disappeared out the servants’ entrance.

“Gwaine, get Gaius to his chambers so that he can gather whatever supplies he thinks he’ll need,” Arthur ordered. They might not know the threat, but even Arthur knew it would be foolish to be caught without any medical supplies. “Lord Hywel,” he added, venom dripping from his voice, “still fancy yourself the temporary ruler of Camelot?” Without giving the man a chance to answer, Arthur said, “Go with them,” and drew his own sword.

“My lord—”

“ _Go_ ,” Arthur snarled, and Hywel scrambled after Gaius and Gwaine, who had followed the path of Gwen and Percival. When they were gone, Arthur turned to Merlin. “Where is she?” he asked, still keeping one eye on the door.

Merlin didn’t need to ask who Arthur meant, who he was expecting to come through that door any moment. For all that she’d been mortally wounded when he’d last seen her, for all that over two years had passed since then, Morgana had never quite left their minds. Especially not now, when Arthur didn’t seem to spend a waking moment without thinking about magic and sorcery and everything associated with it.

“I don’t know,” Merlin replied quietly.

“But she did….” Arthur gestured behind him at the fallen guard.

“Presumably,” Merlin agreed cautiously, “but we don’t know it’s her.”

Arthur glared at him. “Whoever did that would have had to have been nearby, correct?”

Merlin bit his lip. “I’m not sure,” he confessed. “It would certainly be easier if she was nearby. Within sight, I mean. But there are some spells, some rituals, where that wouldn’t be necessary, and I’m sure Morgana would know them all after her time with Morgause.” He shrugged helplessly. “Gaius would know better than I.”

For one second, Arthur looked like he very much wanted to run Merlin through with his sword. The next, he muttered, “Of course. Gaius teaches you,” and turned back to the door. “Come on, then. We’ll find the threat for ourselves.”

Merlin didn’t move. “You could be walking into a trap.”

“Does it matter?” Arthur countered. “I haven’t any other choice, _Mer_ lin, in case you haven’t noticed. I’m not about to stand idle while my people are murdered!”

“Let me go find her, or whoever is behind this,” Merlin said. “Morgana or not, whoever it is won’t be looking for me, but they will be looking for you.”

Arthur couldn’t argue with that, of course. Merlin knew he couldn’t. It was as they’d told everyone else: keeping Emrys’s identity a secret gave him the freedom to move about and to help them.

“I’m not going to retreat,” was all Arthur said in reply. He turned away from Merlin and headed out the doors, leaving Merlin alone in the throne room.

Merlin stood there a moment longer, too used to Arthur’s stubbornness to be truly surprised, before closing his eyes and trying to figure out where he needed to go. He had to trust that Arthur could go five minutes without something terrible happening. For all that Merlin sought to protect Arthur, part of protecting Arthur was protecting those he cared about, and Merlin needed to see if he could pinpoint the threat and move to where he was needed most. 

It would be tricky, trying to sense Morgana’s magic without letting her know—or at the very least without her recognizing whose magic was reaching out to hers, especially since this wasn’t something he tried doing often—but it was the fastest way to find her. Merlin had always tried to keep himself shielded, to keep his magic folded within himself, but he’d had those shields battered away more than once—though the worst time had been when Morgana had ripped open the veil and the Old Religion had screamed in pain and outrage—but it hadn’t kept Mordred from knowing who he was, right from the start.

It had kept Coran from being certain, at least for little while, but Merlin had cautiously relaxed once he’d realized the boy was no threat—nor part of any sort of ruse.

Morgana, however, had never even had an inkling of his magic, and Merlin rather hoped to keep it that way.

-|-

The bodies of the fallen offered a trail for him to follow, Arthur was sure, though he couldn’t fathom where it led. Having stumbled into the middle of it—he’d passed the body of another guard at the end of the corridor—he wasn’t even sure if he was going in the right direction. He didn’t know whether he was going closer to the threat or farther from it. 

The victims, if he had to guess, were the unfortunate souls who had gotten in the way of the intruder. Morgana, he was sure. And perhaps he was playing right into her hands, walking right into her trap.

Arthur, who had to step over the body of a servant with a snapped neck to continue down the corridor, couldn’t bring himself to care how dangerous that was at the moment.

It was a slaughter. He knew that. Perhaps they weren’t awash in blood. Perhaps Morgana’s methods had been slightly cleaner—asphyxiation, snapped spines, the like—but he’d—

Arthur stopped abruptly as he came across the body of one the knights.

Sir Galahad.

Not one of the more inexperienced knights but instead one who had been with him through many trials. Now, despite all he had faced in battle, he had been done in not by steel but by magic. Thrown back with deadly force. He hadn’t had a fighting chance.

It was Morgana. 

It _had_ to be Morgana.

She _knew_ how much he valued his people, knew how close he was to the knights—especially ones which had had their knighthood bestowed upon them when she was still in Camelot.

A mixture of fury and grief blocked Arthur’s throat, and he forced it down. He needed to keep a clear head. He needed to deal with Morgana before things got worse. 

He hadn’t even figured out how she’d gotten into the castle yet, since she could not go anywhere unchallenged.

Of course, anyone who knew the answer to that with any certainty was undoubtedly dead.

Arthur lost the trail—he hated to think of it as nothing more than a trail, but that’s what it was—twice. When he finally found it again the last time, he realized with growing horror where it led: Gaius’s chambers. _Merlin_ ’s chambers.

Morgana had found out the truth.

And Merlin…. He’d left Merlin in the throne room. Alone. 

Perhaps it had been a trap after all.

Arthur cursed his stupidity but, instead of turning back, closed the distance between him and the physician’s quarters. He had to trust that Merlin could hold out for a few minutes longer while he let Gaius know they’d lost the last defence they’d had.

Keeping Merlin’s secret a secret…. It had been their last chance, really. Morgana wanted him dead, but if she thought Emrys was protecting him, she’d have no trouble ensuring his death once her greatest enemy was out of the way. Once Merlin was gone.

Arthur wondered why he had ever, even for the briefest of moments, considered banishing his best friend.

He crossed the threshold, calling for Gaius before he was properly through the door, and was thrown off his feet by a wave of magic. He hit the floor hard, still conscious but too stunned—and, truth be told, pained—to move. Regaining his breath was a task in itself.

“You’re so predictable,” Morgana mused, stepping forward from her place behind the door. “You were never as good at strategy as Uther believed you to be.”

Arthur groaned and tried to shift his weight—if only to see if he could find where Gaius and Gwaine were and if Hywel was still with them—when he was suddenly yanked to his feet. Morgana had one fist held up, the puppeteer holding his strings, and her eyes burned gold. “Not so fast,” she said softly, as if he’d had the strength to go anywhere. “We need to have a little talk.”

Arthur said nothing.

“Later, I suppose,” Morgana decided. “Once I’ve secured my position. I expect the people will be more welcoming this time when they know I’ll do more than burn their crops if they try to resist.” She flashed a smile at him, one achingly like the one she’d often worn before her magic and lust for power had consumed her. “Aithusa will be enough to cow them at present, I expect.”

“Aithusa?” Arthur croaked.

Morgana’s smile grew. “Oh, that’s right, you haven’t met. We have an understanding, the two of us. She’s never told me more than her name—just once, whispered into my mind—but she hasn’t needed to. We do what we can for each other, and she’ll certainly be willing to help me make my point by burning the lower town. I expect it’ll be just like when the Great Dragon escaped.”

Arthur’s eyes widened, the implications sliding into place—the ridiculous rumours _had_ been true!—just as Morgana’s hand plummeted and he dropped like a stone, slamming into the floor below. This time, he wasn’t able to keep the darkness at bay.

-|-

Merlin ran.

The bodies sickened him—they’d all been acquaintances, if not precisely friends—but he leapt over them instead of stopping because he knew at a glance that they were dead, and the dead were beyond saving.

It had taken him less than ten seconds outside of the quarters he shared with Gaius to determine that Arthur _had_ gotten himself into trouble and that he couldn’t get Arthur _out_ of that trouble right now without revealing himself to Morgana. He should have gone with the prat—except, with his luck, they likely both would’ve been captured by Morgana, since he didn’t want to fight her openly yet. Not as himself, anyway. So now, his best chance to help Arthur was not to get caught—at least not get caught _yet_ —and make sure that Gwen made it out safely. With Percival. And anyone else whose path he crossed.

As he’d expected, Percival and Gwen had headed for the tunnels. Merlin had rather hoped that he wouldn’t have caught up to them, but it seemed they had stopped just long enough to figure out what was happening. There was logic in it, of course—they needed to know in which direction to flee without fear of immediate capture—but if Morgana hadn’t caught Arthur, they could have wasted enough time that she’d caught them instead.

Merlin wasn’t wholly sure when the warning bell had stopped tolling, but he hoped that meant the ringer had fled and not that the ringer was dead.

“Where are Gaius and Gwaine?” Merlin asked in a rush, chest still heaving after his dash.

Percival lowered his sword, which he’d brought up in case Merlin had been someone else—or in case he’d been pursued. “We haven’t seen them,” he said quietly.

Merlin bit back a curse. “I’ll find them,” he said before Guinevere could come up with some reason to stay behind. “You two go on ahead. I ran into Elyan; he’ll follow soon with whomever else he’s managed to talk to. Head for the forest; the lower town won’t be safe.”

“You won’t come with us,” Gwen stated, and Merlin knew it wasn’t a question.

“I can’t leave Arthur right now,” he said, “and I still need to find Gaius. He and Gwaine went for supplies, but they weren’t still gathering them when I caught up.” There was no need to tell Gwen that Morgana had been there—with Arthur, no less—and that he feared she’d already gotten to Gaius and Gwaine.

“Be careful,” Gwen said.

“I will. Now go.” He didn’t wait to see them off; he simply turned and ran in the opposite direction. 

He’d told Elyan where Morgana was and warned that she was unlikely to remain there long. He’d cautioned Elyan against doing something stupid—even if he gathered a group of people and went after her, he’d still lose—and then told him to get as many people as quickly as he could out through the tunnels and into the woods. Elyan was the sort of person who wouldn’t run while there were innocent people who would be left behind. That’s one of the reasons Arthur had made him a knight in the first place. But it also meant the risk for capture of them all was that much greater, and Merlin would rather as few people as possible were left here with Morgana.

He had no doubt she’d replace any missing staff with people from the lower town. She planned on burning their homes, after all, and to most forced labour seemed better than death when faced with the choice. But the more people who could get out, the better.

The next hours passed in a blur. Leon and Elyan had both made it out; they at least saw sense in being the rescuers when the time came for it, even if they were unwilling to leave him behind when it appeared that he could do nothing. With them went only a small portion of the castle staff. From what Merlin could tell, most had already fled or refused to leave, favouring the devil they knew over the devil they didn’t or perhaps fearing Morgana’s retribution if they were caught. Thankfully, the group of people numbering in the latter way of thinking was small.

Morgana wasted little time in declaring herself Queen of Camelot, claiming her right of birth as a Pendragon to the throne—conveniently ignoring, as she always did, that the throne would never have been hers by any means but usurpation anyway. Unlike before, she had no one as her right hand man, but she didn’t seem to need one. Her entrance had made it very clear that the choice was either to obey her or to die. She had no patience for anyone attempting to play games, and she made short work of anyone who got in her way.

The bodies, which had been piled just outside the walls by the remaining staff and set aflame by a mere word from Morgana, proved that.

They weren’t even accorded a chance to be claimed by family and given a decent burial.

With all the innocent blood that had been shed here, it was a wonder that there wasn’t a vengeful spirit haunting the citadel.

Merlin kept out of Morgana’s sight. She no doubt thought he had fled with the others, and he was quite willing to let her believe that for as long as possible. He pretended to be subservient to her along with everyone else when in the presence of other staff, for he didn’t dare trust any of them now. With so little faith in Arthur, he doubted any of those remaining would side with him even if he wasn’t standing by Morgana’s side. He feared that if he were caught in any act of rebellion by anyone, he would be reported to Morgana, the informant no doubt hoping to win her favour.

He couldn’t afford to take any unnecessary risks right now. He’d be taking more than enough to make up for it later, but right now…. Right now, it was better for everyone to believe in the lie—to believe that he feared for his life as much as everyone else did, to believe that he could do no more to stand against Morgana than any of them.

Hiding in plain sight was something he’d gotten awfully good at.

It was some time before Merlin learned that Morgana had tossed Gwaine, Gaius, and Arthur each in the dungeons, all in separate cells. 

Lord Hywel was dead.

Merlin knew many of the people here were changing their loyalties with the wind—first to Arthur, then to anyone _but_ him, and now, out of seeming necessity, to Morgana—but he would have thought that, in light of Arthur’s past accomplishments if nothing else, someone would risk Morgana’s ire and let Arthur go. After all, he was their best hope to combat her, even if he had admitted to seeing some good come of magic.

At the very least the people were afraid of Morgana, and fear bred rebellion as much as it did false loyalty.

And Arthur had never slaughtered innocent people quite like this. Not completely on his own accord, anyway. Those who had perished on raids ordered by Uther in the past or the like had not fallen as Arthur had gone to do whatever he must to secure what he thought he needed, as Morgana had done time and time again to get the throne.

Morgana’s ruthlessness was fresh on people’s minds, however, and many still moved about with a look which Merlin recognized as shock. No one else was thinking of the dangers of filching keys right now, nor of daring to take a press and make a copy as Gwen once had, nor even of finding something, anything, with which to pick the lock.

It wasn’t until Merlin finally made it down to the cells, however, that he realized the truth of it.

It was not merely a strong fear of Morgana that kept people from acting against her after all, nor the suddenness of her takeover. 

It was the white dragon that guarded her prisoners.


	16. Chapter 16

Arthur wished he hadn’t been such a complete fool.

Morgana had counted on a number of things: that he’d follow the trail she’d left to its end, that he’d send someone for medical supplies, that he’d—eventually, if not immediately—go himself to see what the trouble was if the person he’d sent never came back….

_“We need to have a little talk.”_

He wasn’t looking forward to that. Morgana knew he wouldn’t readily spill any secrets, and he wondered why she’d ask him specifically rather than someone she thought would break more easily but still have the information. 

But maybe she wasn’t so sure anyone else _had_ that information.

Arthur found himself thinking back to Gaius’s capture and how he had looked Arthur in the eye afterward and told him he’d been asked questions about Arthur, about Camelot, and that they’d gotten nothing out of him.

Now he wondered if that was the truth—if that was _really_ what Gaius had been questioned about—or if Gaius had simply told him what he had expected to hear.

He leaned his head back against the cold stone of the cell. Gaius was in the one opposite him; Gwaine was separated from him by this very wall. If Morgana suspected he and Gaius both had information about Emrys, then Gwaine was nothing more than a tool for her to use to try to get them to talk.

Morgana liked playing with her food, as a cat with mice, but after seeing Sir Galahad, after hearing about Lord Hywel…. Arthur wasn’t so sure she wouldn’t just kill Gwaine to make a point if neither he nor Gaius offered up any information on Emrys. And even when it came to them, she only needed one alive if she was convinced they both had the information she thought they did.

Arthur wasn’t convinced he could keep up the pretence of being ignorant with someone who knew him so very well. Morgana had always been able to catch him out in a lie when they were young. She’d been better at reading him than Uther.

She also knew him better, really, in terms of how he acted and reacted in certain situations, and he couldn’t convince himself that she hadn’t already realized the truth of it. She’d taunted him earlier. He knew that. She would have taunted him anyway. But it was what she’d said that made him think she knew that he knew Emrys’s identity.

Merlin had said she didn’t know who he really was, even after everything. And if she knew Emrys was acting against her, she’d do anything to be rid of him.

And then there was the matter of their guard.

It was a dragon.

The dragon Aithusa, Arthur gathered. He’d woken in this cell, so he’d not heard Morgana’s instructions to the beast, nor had he any idea how well the dragon had understood. But fool though he was, he was not fool enough to do anything to anger the dragon.

He’d thought the last dragon in existence had been the Great Dragon and that they’d all been gone once he’d slain it.

This dragon was small enough to manoeuvre about the tunnels, but young though the dragon might be, he did not want to underestimate the creature. He’d no doubt it would still be able to breathe fire, and he wanted to give it no cause to do so. Morgana would surely ensure that he lived long enough to tell her whatever she wanted to hear, but she would have no qualms about leaving him badly burned if she thought it might suit her purposes.

Which it would.

Arthur closed his eyes, resisting the urge to groan.

A dragon.

Morgana had a _dragon_.

And it _listened_ to her.

Arthur wished again, as he had when he’d faced the Great Dragon, that the last Dragonlord had not met his death at the hand of bandits.

His slaying of the last dragon was a feat he was not sure he could repeat. He was not so pompous—contrary to Merlin’s belief—to think that his skill alone had been responsible for his success—or for his survival. He’d lost so many knights in that one night….

Merlin might have magic, but even he could not control a dragon. Dragons were creatures of magic themselves, an ancient race more powerful than any mere human. That this particular dragon was willing to yield to Morgana’s wishes was…unnerving. How she had managed to form a bond with such a creature…. He couldn’t fathom it.

He knew Morgana had by now declared himself Queen of Camelot. Again. She’d have wasted no time in doing that, just as she’d wasted no time in ridding herself of Lord Hywel and any threat, however small, he might have posed. But she had to know her position was a precarious one. She had no army to back her. She was using magic and fear to secure her position. The people had begun to doubt him because they’d believed he’d abandoned them to side with her—or at the very least had opened the way for this to happen as it had.

Perhaps he had, though it had never been his intention. 

Morgana would have tried again. He had no doubt about that. But perhaps it wouldn’t have been the way she had now.

He’d failed his people.

And now that Morgana had a dragon by her side, her words to him so long ago were proven true: not even Emrys could save him now.

Arthur had no illusions to the contrary. Merlin would try, certainly. He wouldn’t hesitate before risking his life to save Arthur. He’d done it before in situations where he knew the risks—and their consequences—as clearly as this. But he could do nothing against a dragon. He may be able to shield its fire somehow, but he would be able to do little against a physical attack and, small as the beast was, it was large enough. 

Arthur had to trust that Merlin was still alive, though. That Guinevere was still alive. And the rest of the knights. While Morgana could well be withholding the news of their deaths for a time when it would be a more crippling blow, he had to trust that they’d had the sense to get away. To take the time to plan a rescue. Morgana’s attack had come at a time when the people would not necessarily fight for him as they had last time. The best he could hope for was that the few who _would_ fight for him would be able to gather others to fight for Camelot—more specifically, for a Camelot that was not under Morgana’s rule.

And then, perhaps, the citizens who were loyal to Morgana solely out of fear would be willing to risk their own lives to help.

They surely would not all support her merely because they thought she would protect them if they proved loyal to her. Such protection would be short term, for their loyalty could be called into question at any time, to say nothing of their usefulness. There must be a fair number of people who would be able to see that hers would not be the winning side.

Morgana cared nothing for anyone but herself. She claimed to do what she did for her kind, for her _kin_ , but she’d slaughtered innocents to achieve her purpose as surely as Uther had.

But this time, Arthur wasn’t in a position where he could challenge her.

This time, he was not part of those who would be sneaking into the castle; this time, he would be among those who would need to be freed.

And he hated that most of all.

This had turned out to be one of those times he should have listened to Merlin. Not that he’d ever admit that to Merlin, of course. But he was—now that he was in the cells with no means of escape and guarded by a dragon, of all things—willing to admit it to himself.

_“Let me go find her,”_ Merlin had said. _“Whoever it is won’t be looking for me, but they will be looking for you.”_

How would the situation look now if he’d listened for once? By Merlin’s thinking, he wouldn’t be stuck in here. He’d be free to act. But he wasn’t so sure that, if he _had_ agreed to let Merlin go first, they wouldn’t have both ended up here anyway.

Merlin might have been able to open the cell door somehow—he’d gotten into Arthur’s locked chambers easily enough before—and claim to have picked the lock if Gwaine asked any questions, but he still wouldn’t have been able to get past the dragon, so they would have been no further ahead.

Granted, Morgana wouldn’t keep the dragon down here with them for long. It was too useful to her. She’d said herself she wanted to use it to set the lower town aflame, to bring back the terror of the time they’d been under siege by the Great Dragon itself. It would merely be a warning to them that she would happily set the dragon upon them if they resisted her. So perhaps Merlin would be able to escape then.

And then….

Arthur didn’t know what might happen then. Merlin could try to steal the keys, perhaps. He certainly couldn’t take the easy route and use his magic to let them go unless he wished to reveal himself to Gwaine and risked revealing himself to Morgana, as any magic he did now would risk that. 

Unless he looked like Dragoon, of course, but then he’d be an easy mark for Morgana. If she’d caught him stealing the…the creature of dark magic, whatever it had been, from her, then she knew him on sight. Merlin would lose everything his current anonymity granted him.

His people would not be loyal to a sorcerer they suspected of enchanting their king and would want to see him gone as much as Morgana herself. He had little doubt they would report him to her despite what he’d said in his speech commending Emrys, thinking his words were nothing more than the enchantment speaking. They would, no doubt, hope that one sorcerer would destroy the other and there would be one less threat to them.

And if Emrys happened to be the one destroyed, they might well believe that they’d then have their king back in his proper mind. The enchantment would die with the sorcerer who cast it. 

Merlin would have no help from the people at all, for even if they were not loyal to Morgana, they might well believe they were being loyal to him if they acted against Emrys. His father had said those words often enough.

Arthur’s head throbbed, and he was grateful that Gaius and Gwaine were silent. When he’d first come to, he’d immediately called out. They both had answered him then. Neither was seriously hurt, though both had been tossed about like rag dolls as he had. Truth be told, Arthur suspected Gaius was worse for wear than he’d admit, but his voice had been strong and steady as he’d relayed the tale of their capture.

It had been little different than his, really. Morgana had caught them by surprise, separated Gwaine from his sword easily enough, heard just enough from Gwaine’s indignant remarks to gather that he was still in the castle, and thrown them into Gaius’s bookshelves.

Gwaine’s interjections into Gaius’s tale had not managed to paint any prettier a picture.

Especially when Arthur had since realized the crumpled pile of cloth he’d glimpsed in Gaius’s chambers earlier by those very bookshelves hadn’t been spare bedding or anything so innocuous. 

Arthur knew now how Morgana had gotten in, of course. It hadn’t been, as he’d initially suspected before he’d crossed paths with her, that she’d managed to sneak in the tunnels they always escaped out of despite the guards he had walking posts along them for just that purpose. No, she had walked right through the front gates, been _welcomed_ by his guards, no doubt, and shown into the castle.

They’d not thought to question the harmless-looking old lady they knew only as Bronwyn, the woman who had come to Arthur days before with information about a sorcerer and had undoubtedly come up with some excuse to see him—anyone—again. 

Although Morgana had no longer looked like an eighty year old woman when she’d attacked him in Gaius’s chambers, although she had no longer been stooped and wrinkled, face framed with wispy grey hair and gnarled fingers clinging to a walking stick for support, she’d been wearing Bronwyn’s clothes. There was no mistaking it. 

He’d forgotten how much magic could change a person’s appearance. 

A part of him wondered why Morgana had not simply attacked him the first time she’d turned up at the castle, but he believed he knew the answer to that. She’d _wanted_ this to happen. She’d planned to spread rumours about him cooperating with a sorcerer, whispering that his rule had been compromised and that he was no longer in a fit state to be king. She’d planned to weaken his position, to cause his own people to question him when they had followed him so faithfully before.

And then he’d made it that much worse for himself by proposing amendments to his father’s bans on sorcery and sealed his fate when he’d gone further in his speech and as good as said he would not necessarily execute a sorcerer if one was brought before him.

Oh, he knew how it looked. That’s why it had worked so perfectly. He had spent nearly a fortnight searching for someone who turned out to be a sorcerer and finally called off the search, claiming all sorts of believable but clearly not wholly true reasons. And then he began making noises about changes to the bans, when a month ago—less than—he would have never considered it.

He would perhaps have been able to get away with his amendments concerning the Druids without too much resistance, but not when it followed so closely on the heels of his search for a sorcerer. And certainly not when he’d announced his intentions to go further.

Why had he managed to walk right into this situation when he’d been aware of its possibility of developing in the first place?

He wasn’t sure he regretted it, exactly. He knew things had not played out as he’d hoped, but he…. He knew he wouldn’t have done things terribly differently, although he would have certainly held his tongue regarding any future changes to the laws until these ones had settled—even knowing that each day he kept his silence, the risks to Merlin remained. 

Merlin had been right: the people needed time, just as he had needed time. And despite his intentions, he hadn’t given it to them. He’d pushed through his amendments regarding the Druids despite the advice he’d received and, in a sudden desire to protect his idiotic servant, spoke of Emrys, the good he was doing, and why he did not deserve to be punished for it.

And that Arthur didn’t intend to punish him for it.

There would have to be boundaries, limitations, noted exceptions, the lot. He simply hadn’t mapped those out yet. He’d have to speak to Gaius. He’d likely have to speak to Merlin, though he thought he’d learn more from Gaius. And it would perhaps be wise to consult some of the Druid elders, once he repaired relations with them. 

He could not hope to redefine the laws on his own, writing them around something he still didn’t properly understand, and expect it to be adequate.

What had Merlin said to him? _“Even in Camelot, magic is here. And you don’t understand it.”_ That was the root of a good many of his problems, it seemed. He thought he understood something when he didn’t. At least here, he could acknowledge his ignorance in the matter. He’d only look the fool if he tried to feign confidence about his decisions about it.

He felt foolish enough as it was being caught in this particular situation.

He could admit now that there was a small part of him which had hoped something like this would never come to be. He’d wanted to think that some part of the old Morgana he’d known for so many years still survived, locked away deep within herself. He’d thought that such actions on his part—lessening the bans against magic, making steps to bring magic back altogether as she so clearly wanted—might free her.

But Morgana was beyond saving.

He had to accept that the young woman he had known was dead, little more than a bittersweet memory.

The Morgana who had risen up in her place seemed altogether different at times, but Arthur was beginning to think he could understand how she had come to be. She’d seen the blind slaughter of everyone like her. She’d seen fear and misunderstanding. There would have been confusion and desperation and utter terror of the ones she had loved most. She would have despised herself, despised her gifts, because of what it meant.

And then it had been as Merlin had said: Morgana had turned to Morgause. And fear had turned to hatred, to bitterness, and the sweet lady he’d known had been lost forever.

He didn’t know what might have happened if Gaius had stepped in to help her in secret as he had obviously been doing for Merlin. And Merlin himself had as good as said that he’d wondered if he should have done anything to help her. Arthur wasn’t entirely clear on why Merlin hadn’t, for he suspected there was more to the story than the fear that Morgana might give him up. 

Merlin had certainly implied that he’d had at least some inkling of…of all of this. What it had all come to, before the situation had escalated to the point it was now. _“If I had listened to those wiser than myself….”_ He hadn’t been speaking about Gaius, Arthur was sure, although Gaius had shown time and time again to have much more sense than his ward. 

But Merlin hadn’t gotten to that particular story yet, just like he hadn’t gotten to a number of stories.

There was a scuffle from the stairwell. Arthur opened his eyes and looked in that direction, noting with an uneasy feeling that the dragon had already raised its head and locked its eyes on the doorway. 

A moment later, Merlin’s face appeared, only barely illuminated by the sole torch positioned where the guards usually stood. To his credit, he didn’t yelp or otherwise do something that would’ve gotten himself burned to a crisp, though his eyes had gone wide. If Arthur was to guess, Merlin had been startled into silence, whatever he’d been about to say—because it was Merlin, and he would have been about to say something—dying on the tip of his tongue.

Arthur, who happened to be in the only cell that was really in Merlin’s line of sight from that vantage point, made frantic gestures to his manservant to _get out of there_. 

Merlin didn’t move.

Arthur tried again, and when the result was the same, he wondered if it was because of the dragon. Maybe Merlin had picked up something from all those hunting trips. _No sudden movements. You don’t want to startle it…._

But he would have thought Merlin would at least back away slowly.

Merlin’s mouth moved, and Arthur half expected something to happen.

It didn’t.

Merlin’s mouth opened again, and this time Arthur heard, just barely, “Gaius?” Arthur jerked his thumb to his right. “Gwaine?” Arthur pointed to the left. Merlin bit his lip but nodded before asking, “Are you all well?”

Arthur glared at him.

Merlin gave him an apologetic shrug and a sheepish smile. Then, in response to Arthur’s unasked question, he said, “It’s not looking good.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Arthur muttered. The dragon’s head twitched at that but it kept its eyes locked on Merlin.

Comforting. And here he’d been hoping it wouldn’t be able to recognize Merlin as a threat, but it wouldn’t even risk letting Merlin out of its sight. Perhaps, as a magical creature, it could sense Merlin’s power? 

Or maybe it was simply intelligent enough to know that he, being unarmed and behind bars, couldn’t do anything anyway.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” Merlin said softly, his voice carrying easily. “All of you. I promise.” He licked his lips. “I just…. Not yet. I’m sorry, but not yet. Not while Aithusa’s here. She’d know then.”

Arthur didn’t need to ask to know that _she_ meant _Morgana_. He nodded and waved Merlin away. Merlin lingered a moment longer, craning his neck to get a glimpse of Gaius in his cell—it would be impossible to spot Gwaine unless he moved into the dragon’s path—before disappearing back into the shadows.

Arthur didn’t hear him go, and it occurred to him that Merlin could be quiet if he wanted to be.

Which probably meant he’d been deliberately noisy during all those hunting trips, since Arthur seemed to recall his greatest successes had always come when he needed it most—visiting delegates or some such thing where they needed to bring back something for a feast—and his most humiliating failures—where the stag had gotten spooked at just the wrong moment—had been when he’d been hunting primarily for pleasure. Or, perhaps more accurately, bragging rights.

He supposed he should give Merlin the benefit of the doubt. It was a good deal more difficult to move quietly in the forest, through trees and grasses, fallen leaves or dried needles, than over stone—at least when stocking feet was an option for the latter. And Arthur had come to realize that Merlin’s clumsiness wasn’t entirely a show. He’d tripped over his own feet often enough since Arthur had realized the truth that he knew it wasn’t just something that had developed into a habit born of previous necessity but true poor coordination.

Although Arthur was really starting to think that was just because Merlin simply wasn’t paying attention, as whenever the situation was dreadfully serious and couldn’t be lightened with a bit of humour on Merlin’s part, he seemed quite sure of himself.

Arthur had long since settled back down, trying to get as comfortable as he possibly could in a place that was designed for anything but comfort, when the dragon finally lowered its head again.

It was some time after that—not terribly long—that Arthur remembered what Merlin had said: _“Not while Aithusa’s here.”_

Aithusa.

What Morgana had called her dragon.

Its name, apparently.

Merlin knew the dragon’s name.

Its _name_.

How, for the love of Camelot, did Merlin know the dragon’s name?

Arthur groaned. For all he knew, Morgana had been with the dragon for a while, and Merlin had seen it one of the many times when Arthur had assumed he’d been in the tavern. Although Merlin could have had the decency to mention it before. He could have done so under the guise of it being a rumour he’d heard without arousing any unusual suspicion. When Arthur finally _had_ heard rumours of Morgana and a dragon, it hadn’t been from Merlin.

Except Merlin had looked awfully surprised to see the dragon to have already known that Morgana was working closely with it. Arthur supposed it simply could have been surprise that the dragon was down here with them, but it made sense for Morgana to keep the dragon under wraps until she wanted to spread terror more effectively than she already was. Merlin’s initial shock should have worn off much more quickly than it had.

But Merlin _had_ to have already known that Morgana had a dragon. Whether or not he’d heard the rumours—come to think of it, Merlin might not have as Arthur was fairly sure he had heard it from someone visiting from another kingdom—meant nothing, for the rumours hadn’t included the name Aithusa. Unless Merlin had already run into Morgana and the dragon, there was no other way he could possibly know the dragon’s name.

Right?

Arthur found himself staring at a patch of lichen that had begun growing on the stone opposite him, positioned high enough up to catch the majority of the window’s light. Either Merlin had known about Morgana and the dragon or he had known about the dragon. His use of the name had been too casual for someone to have merely told him about the existence of the white dragon. Arthur was almost willing to bet that the name had rolled off Merlin’s tongue before.

Pity Merlin himself couldn’t be a Dragonlord, but perhaps this dragon had been around long enough that the last one—Balinor, if memory served—had spoken to Merlin of it. Merlin had gotten along well with him—Merlin got along well with everyone, really, unless they were trying to kill him—and with his curiosity, he’d probably asked about dragons. He did enough research with Gaius that wasn’t specifically related to healing that Arthur could certainly picture Merlin doing just that.

But he couldn’t—shouldn’t—make any assumptions about Merlin anymore.

For every piece of Merlin’s secret he uncovered, for every story Merlin offered him, Arthur was left not with answers but with more questions and a sense that he’d never know the whole truth. The truth appeared too vast and too carefully secreted away for him to do more than catch a glimpse of the pieces here and there.

He could see through Merlin’s illusion now, but he was beginning to realize just how much he was still fooled by pieces of it, thinking Merlin could never know about this or that or that one particular notion was absolutely absurd only to have it turn out to be the truth….

At the moment, Arthur had no choice but to wait. Merlin would have no chance to tell him the truth now when it was so important that they keep it from Morgana. He might be able to piece it together on his own once he saw how things played out, but he rather suspected he wouldn’t see enough of Merlin’s movements to know the truth.

He never had before.

Even now that he was aware of it, things wouldn’t be terribly different.

If they could get through this, though…. If they could get through this, then he’d have a good long talk with Merlin. He doubted he’d find out everything at once, but he didn’t need to. He just needed to let Merlin know that he was finally ready to listen.

He needed to let Merlin know he trusted him again.


	17. Chapter 17

Merlin had moved everything he’d thought he could down to the cavern where Kilgharrah had once been kept. No one save him had come down there then—not that he’d ever seen, anyway, though he supposed someone must have been feeding Kilgharrah occasionally—and no one came down here now. He didn’t risk taking a torch like he once had, though. He wanted to give Morgana no reason to search.

It would have been easier to leave his things in his chambers where he’d been storing them all along—if Arthur had never found them and Morgana had no reason to look, either, it was unlikely she’d turn anything up—but it was far too likely that he’d be spotted there, and keeping out of Morgana’s sight was difficult enough as it was.

She’d amassed more followers than Merlin had anticipated. To be fair, most of those had agreed to serve her solely so that they would live to see the end of this dark day and the dawning of the next. But since Morgana had already begun picking out those she thought mere pretenders and punishing them for their false loyalty, Merlin wasn’t sure whether he could count any of the people around him as allies. 

None had yet sworn to serve Morgana—she’d not extracted their vows—and the people would flee the minute they were able, but while they were here under her watchful eye, they’d not act against her. Not openly. Not when they knew the consequences.

Not after she’d set them scrubbing the blood from the stone after doling out her punishments.

Morgana had not kept Aithusa in the dungeons for long. When dusk fell, Merlin caught a flash of white moving through the corridors, and by the time it was fully dark, he could see the fires that lit the lower town. 

Even for him, even without being right in the midst of it all, the sight and the stench was strongly reminiscent of the time Kilgharrah had attacked. He might not be able to hear the cries of the people from the castle, but he could imagine them.

He’d called Aithusa back the moment he’d realized Morgana’s intent, of course. But he hadn’t been able to do so immediately, for he’d been too close to others to be able to get away to issue his commands without arousing suspicion. By then, Aithusa had already accomplished her purpose, and if Morgana had wondered why Aithusa had cut off her attack abruptly, she hadn’t made it known to anyone else.

Merlin had needed to make his commands very precise. He wasn’t sure why Aithusa was serving Morgana. He’d thought her a symbol of the success of the future he would help Arthur build, not a cause for its destruction. But he had enough experience with Kilgharrah to know that if Aithusa truly wanted to serve Morgana, she’d do as he commanded to the letter—she had to—and exploit any loophole left by his words.

He hadn’t seen enough of Aithusa to be truly sure of her loyalties, though. She’d grown tremendously since he’d last seen her, but that had been over two years ago now. He’d thought she’d been in Kilgharrah’s care but had never had the sense to ask. Merlin hoped Kilgharrah thought Aithusa old enough to be on her own or he’d have searched for her, but perhaps not.

Dragonlord or not, Merlin didn’t know enough of Kilgharrah’s ways to anticipate his actions. 

Aithusa was not looking as well as Merlin would have hoped, however. Whatever trials she had faced had affected her. She didn’t fly as easily as Kilgharrah. She’d not said anything to him, but he’d never been close enough to her when they were both alone to know if she could even speak or not. While he had no doubt she understood all that they said—she followed Morgana readily enough—she might not have been with Kilgharrah long enough to learn how to speak. If she did know how—whether she’d been taught by Kilgharrah or figured out how by herself—she might simply be choosing _not_ to speak. He didn’t know.

The dragons were his kin, but his knowledge of them was dismal.

Now was not the time to call Kilgharrah and question him, however. The last thing Merlin needed now was for another dragon to turn up in Camelot—particularly when memories of Kilgharrah’s attack had been brought sharply to the surface of the minds of many of the citizens.

He wished he could sneak down and free the others now, but Morgana kept frequenting their cells, bringing taunting reminders and horrific reports, and Merlin wasn’t sure he could get down there without her noticing—or, if he did, that they could all get away quickly enough. He’d fight her, if he had to, but he rather do so when he felt more confident he could win. He wasn’t keen on letting her discover everything about him right now. 

He didn’t really want her to realize he could get around Aithusa, either. If Morgana kept her as her final card, if she counted on her at just the wrong moment, then Merlin could beat her at her own game. To Merlin’s knowledge, both Arthur and Morgana thought the last of the Dragonlords had perished. Right now, he’d rather keep it that way.

It was better if Morgana thought Aithusa was an unbeatable weapon, and better she had nothing else about which to question the others. 

Gaius had already suffered to keep his secret, and Merlin didn’t want to give Morgana any more cause than she already had to try to torture the truth from his friends.

Merlin carefully tucked away into a shallow crevice a pouch containing two anti-aging potions. Gaius had brewed them while he’d been gone to replace the ones he’d used. If Merlin wanted any more, he’d have to find the book and the materials and make it himself—something that would be difficult indeed the way things were looking now. But until he had the chance to do that—and he knew better than to count on the fact that he would have that chance—he had to make do with what he had and make it last. 

He could change twice, becoming Dragoon the Great—Emrys—and use all the magic openly as he wished. He risked attracting Morgana’s immediate attention that way, however. She’d certainly be on the lookout for him and was unlikely to fall prey to any of his previous tricks, so he couldn’t depend on being able to put a temporary stopper in her magic use again. But he didn’t blend in much better as _Merlin_ , either.

He’d gotten in her way too often for that to be the case.

He wasn’t even sure how much time he had to act. It likely wasn’t much. Sooner rather than later, someone was bound to mention his name, even just to another servant, and Morgana would know that he was here.

Merlin had a choice, really. He could try to subvert Morgana’s actions as best he could while pretending to be nothing more than Arthur’s loyal manservant, or he could draw attention to himself by being Morgana’s recognizable foe and hope to unnerve her.

Doing both at once wasn’t an option.

It was possible, certainly, but even he wasn’t foolish enough to give up the best advantage he had.

Merlin slid down the wall and leaned against it, closing his eyes. He was tired, and he wouldn’t get much in the way of rest over the next few days. Morgana would be active enough, even this first night. He couldn’t afford to let fatigue make him careless.

There was plenty of work to do yet, and he’d rather not be dragged before Morgana because he was caught doing it.

Merlin rested for a few minutes more before scrambling to his feet and setting off.

-|-

“You need to get some sleep, Gwen.”

Gwen didn’t move from her place huddled against a tree trunk even as Elyan settled down beside her. “I can’t,” she said.

“You have to try.”

“I have to help,” Gwen corrected. She was staring in the direction of the citadel, even though they’d long since lost sight of it. “We need to go back.”

“We’ll go back when we’re prepared,” Elyan reminded her. “We need to regroup first. We need to get some rest so that we’ll be able to defeat Morgana.”

“It’s just her,” Gwen said. “She hasn’t an army behind her this time. We could go back there now, surprise her—”

“She’d be expecting us to do something like that.”

Gwen didn’t correct him, for the thought had crossed her mind as well. Morgana had planned this. She’d planned all of it, and they hadn’t seen it coming. Far from moving to stop her, they’d played right into her hands.

And now she was here, and Arthur was there.

With Morgana.

“Emrys will help us,” whispered Gwen, clinging to one of the last hopes she had.

Beside her, Elyan said nothing. 

His silence spoke volumes, and Gwen could read it easily. “You shouldn’t doubt him, Elyan. We might be here, but he’ll be back there, and he’ll help us see this through.”

Silence for another few seconds, and then Elyan said, “He’s a sorcerer. He could have helped cause this.”

“He didn’t.” Gwen turned to look at Elyan then, although she could see little of him now in the darkness. “If he did, it wasn’t intentional.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I trust him, Elyan. Arthur trusts him. You should, too.”

Elyan picked at the fallen twigs that surrounded the base of the tree. “I can’t bring myself to trust him, Gwen, after he threatened Arthur like he did. I won’t contradict Arthur—I’ll do what Emrys asks me if it’s reasonable—but I can’t trust him. Not yet.” He met her gaze. “Don’t ask me to trust him until I can look him in the eye and know that I should.”

“He’s saved me,” Gwen reminded her brother softly.

“So you’ve said.” Elyan snapped the stick he’d been toying with. “But it also looks like he’s been manipulating you and you can’t see that, even now.”

Despite herself, a laugh escaped Gwen’s lips. It was a small one, quiet yet desperate. “That’s part of the reason we’re in this mess,” she said. “We doubt each other, second-guessing our actions and wondering if everyone else’s intentions are noble.” 

“I can’t help how I feel, Gwen.”

“I know, I know. It’s just….” Gwen shook her head. “You’ll see, Elyan. When we get through this, you’ll see that Emrys has helped us.”

“Maybe,” Elyan conceded, “but in the meantime, you need to get some sleep. If he is going to help us, we need to be ready to capitalize on it, and we aren’t.”

“Aren’t you going to get some rest?”

“I’ll rest later. I’m taking first watch.”

“All right. Good night.” Gwen climbed to her feet and started back towards her bed roll—one of the few they had, as they’d not exactly stopped to gather supplies. She wished that they’d had time, but she’d rather do without than risk capture. The only reason they had any supplies at all was that some of those who had joined them had risked grabbing what they could before running.

Leon had suggested taking a small group back to the lower town tomorrow to pick up a few more things and survey the damage Morgana had already managed to do, but they’d made no official decisions yet. Their initial goal had been to get away, and planning was to be done when they could think with clear heads.

Clear heads and aching hearts, at least in her case. She knew Arthur would be grateful she’d gotten away, but she didn’t want to be here without him. Yes, Emrys was surely there. Merlin was, too, no doubt, if he had managed to evade capture. She hoped he had. 

She didn’t think Morgana would be inclined to show any kindness to any of them once she’d captured them.

Gwen was well aware of why Morgana had tried to kill her at their last meeting now, of course. Morgana’s words at the time— _“It’s not what you’ve done; it’s what you’re destined to do!”_ —hadn’t made sense. And then, after everything, she’d spoken with Arthur. And now she wore the crown Morgana fancied as her own.

She doubted Morgana would have hesitated before killing her if she had stayed. She certainly wouldn’t hesitate if Gwen returned. Their years of friendship and companionship in the past amounted to nothing now. Morgana wanted her dead. She wanted Arthur dead. She wanted everyone dead who stood in her way, and that was all of them. 

Gwen lay down and closed her eyes, but it was a long time before sleep came to her.

-|-

Arthur was jerked from his slumber when he was pulled roughly to his feet. He hadn’t slept well—his mind was preoccupied, he was cold, and stone wasn’t exactly comfortable—but he had enough of his wits about him to realize that it was still dark out.

“Couldn’t sleep well?” he taunted, trying to pretend that a middle-of-the-night visit from Morgana wasn’t the least bit unnerving.

Morgana smirked, clearly seeing right through him. “I’ve more important things to do than sleep,” she said contemptuously. She waved a hand, and the invisible strings that had been holding Arthur vanished. He stumbled a bit but regained his footing easily enough. He stood there cautiously, and Morgana said, “You might as well walk while you still can.”

Her eyes never left him, and Arthur knew she might as well have a sword at his throat. He supposed he should enjoy any freedom she granted him. “Where are we going?” he asked as he led the way away from the dungeons.

“The throne room,” she said. “We’ve unfinished business there.”

Wonderful. Morgana most likely wanted to remind him of everything he’d lost to her.

Arthur was not one to roam the castle corridors at night, but even to him, everything seemed unusually quiet. A lack of the usual staff, he suspected, coupled with the late hour. Whatever the reasons, he saw no sign of movement anywhere else, no sign that anyone was awake.

He wondered whether or not Morgana had found Merlin yet. He hoped that the fact his manservant had not joined them in the cells meant she hadn’t. A few weeks previous, he might have suspected that the conspicuous lack of news regarding Merlin meant his manservant had met his end at her hands—he wasn’t sure Morgana would think she’d have any use of him in the future—but now, since he knew the truth….

Perhaps Merlin could get them out of this.

Arthur knew he was certainly going to try.

“What do you want, Morgana?” Arthur asked when she’d enclosed them in the throne room. He could tell at a glance that it was empty. Wherever Merlin was hiding, it wasn’t here. Whatever he was up to, he didn’t feel the need to—or more likely, couldn’t—watch Morgana constantly.

Which meant Arthur really was on his own right now.

“Like I said, dear brother, it’s time we had a little talk.” Morgana sat down on the throne, never taking her eyes off of him. He stood before her until she barked, “ _Sit_ ,” and forced him to his knees with another word and a flash of gold. “Tell me,” she drawled, “how did your search for Emrys go?”

Arthur debated not giving her the satisfaction of an answer but knew he’d pay dearly for keeping his silence. He’d have to bite his tongue soon enough; he may as well try to mislead her now. “Wasn’t Bronwyn in the crowd when I made my announcement to my people?” he asked, his voice harsh. “I never found him.”

Morgana laughed. “Oh, please, you can’t really expect me to believe that. I know how much you hate sorcery, Arthur. You wouldn’t even dream of changing the laws against it unless you were trying to protect him.”

“I’d heard enough of him to want to protect him in return for all that he has done for me,” Arthur countered. “I do not need to find him to desire that. If I had any doubts about the truth of those tales, you vanquished them yourself when you implied his continued protection of me at our last meeting.”

Morgana shot him a look of disdain. “You are too much like Uther,” she bit out. “You wouldn’t trust sorcery without good reason. You’d have to see him for yourself. He’d as good as have to save you again before you’d change your mind.”

For a long while, Arthur said nothing. He was, after all, beginning to think that this might very well turn out to be the time he did see Merlin save him—or at least realize that all the little things that were bound to happen were likely the result of whatever his missing manservant had done. Finally, he said, “But change it I have.”

“Because you know who he is.” It was not a question, and Arthur knew he would not be able to convince Morgana of anything else. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know,” Arthur said, but his only reward for the lie was to be thrown across the room by a furious Morgana. His head cracked painfully against a column and he could hardly cut through his sudden daze to say, “Don’t you already know yourself?”

The strings jerked him upwards as if he were a marionette, and Morgana didn’t bother spitting out that she couldn’t find him even if she did know who he was. “Where is he?” she hissed instead.

“I don’t know,” Arthur replied honestly, and Morgana’s anger bubbled over again. Fire raced along his limbs and he couldn’t help but cry out. When it finally subsided and he found himself a heap on the floor, he wished he hadn’t given her the satisfaction, for she was smiling again.

He remembered the days when her smile could light up a room, but now all it brought was darkness.

“I can do much worse than that,” she said flippantly, as if he needed the reminder. “I could be rid of you right now.”

“But you won’t,” Arthur managed to say. “Not if you think I know where Emrys is.”

Morgana surveyed him for a long moment, but Arthur could not enjoy his brief reprieve when he knew the worst was yet to come. “You are not the only one who has that knowledge,” she said sharply.

“Anyone who knows the truth would die before they’d tell it to you.”

“That will be their choice,” Morgana said lightly. “But I’m afraid I won’t give them—nor you—that option until we’ve exhausted so many other possibilities first. Who would you like to see perish first, Arthur, as a result of your silence? That pitiful excuse for a knight you have for a neighbour or one of your most loyal servants?”

Merlin.

She had Merlin.

_No._ She _couldn’t_ have Merlin. Merlin would…. Merlin would expose himself as a sorcerer—as Emrys—before he’d let her kill him. 

Unless he was foolish enough to believe that he could do more to stop her once he’d been caught. Or perhaps being captured had been a mistake—there really was no question now that Merlin’s clumsiness was part of his character and not merely part of his mask—and he thought it was best for Morgana to underestimate him, striking back when he thought the time right. He surely would have been running around all day. For all Arthur knew, Merlin didn’t want to confront Morgana—didn’t want the truth to come out—until he was rested and could properly muster up all the power he was said to have.

And now Morgana had Merlin. Somewhere. Somewhere not near him, as she clearly didn’t want to give either of them the satisfaction of seeing the other alive. She didn’t want to give them hope.

She wanted to pit them against each other.

“Can’t make up your mind?” Morgana teased. 

Arthur couldn’t let Morgana just kill Gwaine as effortlessly as she had slaughtered everyone else, and he wasn’t about to let her try with Merlin in case he _was_ too weak to fight back. Merlin might not have told him much, but Arthur had heard enough of the real story behind it all to know that Merlin, in the right circumstances, could be made helpless, no matter how strong his determination.

He might be a powerful sorcerer, but Arthur had finally realized he was still just _Merlin_.

A Merlin who, at times, had done things of which Arthur did not approve, but Merlin nonetheless, with all his faults and virtues.

“I could make it easy for you, I suppose,” Morgana continued. “It would be simple enough to kill them both at once. Drawing it out would be more entertaining, but I do know the importance of making a point.”

“No.” Arthur had spoken before he’d even realized it.

“No?” Morgana looked amused. “I’m afraid the only way around that, Arthur, is if you tell me what I want to know.”

Arthur said nothing.

“Being difficult will get you nowhere,” Morgana snapped. “If you expect Emrys to save you all now, Arthur, you’re sorely mistaken.”

He wished Morgana weren’t right on that point, but if she truly had Merlin—if for some reason he couldn’t escape, if she’d hurt him or had managed to disrupt his magic in some way—then she _was_ right. Emrys wouldn’t be able to save him now, not if he couldn’t even save himself.

“Tell me who he is and where I can find him.” She stood over him now, looking down at him. He wasn’t sure he could stand on his own yet, and he did not want her to know with certainty that he was as weak as he appeared, so he stayed where he was. “If you don’t, you can watch your friends die.”

With a confidence Arthur did not feel, he replied, “They’d gladly die for me if it came to that.”

Morgana sneered at him. “There would be no honour in their deaths, dear brother, for I’ll get what I want in the end, and they’ll have died in vain. Do you think they will like going to their deaths, knowing you are sacrificing them to save a sorcerer? Do you think they’d volunteer to do so in a heartbeat, as they would for you? Because their deaths will not ensure your life, Arthur, and I’ll make certain that they know that.”

It wouldn’t come to that. It couldn’t. Not if Morgana had Merlin. He wouldn’t let himself be led like a lamb to slaughter. He’d fight back—especially if Morgana made it clear that she intended to kill Arthur sooner rather than later.

But what if Merlin _couldn’t_ fight back, for whatever reason?

Clearly Morgana didn’t know the truth about him as he’d first thought when he’d come across her in Gaius’s quarters. But Merlin hadn’t been able to fight against her before. If he had been, he wouldn’t have ever let her get close to him with that…that creature that took away his free will. Merlin might not know much about the dark arts—at least Arthur didn’t _think_ he did—but he wouldn’t have to. If it was something Morgana was keen on using, it wouldn’t be good.

So Merlin could be hurt right now, having fallen prey to one of Morgana’s traps or been caught unawares when he’d been trying to plot against her. If he was weak enough, it was quite likely that Morgana could kill him, magic or no. And then she’d have rid herself of Emrys without even realizing it. 

How was he supposed to trust in his idiot of a manservant when it was all too likely Merlin was about to get himself killed?

But if he appeared too worried, Morgana would exploit that. “Better a quick death than being forced to serve you, even if it’s not for my sake but for that of the sorcerer who will be your downfall.”

“Don’t think their deaths would be quick,” Morgana retorted immediately, her words clipped and her tone dangerous. “I’ve no reason to show such mercy. I’m more inclined to have Aithusa roast them alive.”

Arthur was not aware of a spell that would allow Merlin to get out of that one, but he was unaware of most spells, so he hoped something existed.

“You have until morning to make your decision,” Morgana said. “Get up. It’s time to go back to your chambers.”

To his cell, she meant. 

Arthur slowly got to his feet, concentrating on remaining steady. At the very least, he needed to give the impression that he was strong, though he expected he’d have better luck fooling someone who did not know him so well. Morgana had banged him around and set fire racing through his nerves, but he was well enough to walk, and he knew she would not let him have such a luxury for long if she didn’t get her way. 

She was already working on weakening them. He’d seen neither food nor water in his entire time in the cells, but then again, it had been less than a full day’s cycle. He didn’t truly expect anything yet. Especially not if she intended sleep deprivation to be part of her tactics.

When Arthur got back to his cell, the door swung shut behind him. “Sweet dreams, Arthur,” Morgana said, the mocking contempt in her voice clear. “ _Ne un clyse_ ,” she added, and Arthur knew that he was locked in once again.

He wished he’d had the foresight to carry another set of keys on him, hidden somewhere where they might not be immediately found (unlike the ring that was usually on his belt), but he wasn’t sure that even a key would help him now. He was getting the impression that magic—or at least Morgana’s magic—was stronger than iron. 

He hoped Merlin’s was stronger still, despite whatever position Morgana had him in now.

As he settled back against the cold stone, dawn felt like a long way off, but Arthur knew it would be there before he could blink.

And with it would be Morgana, ready to hear his decision. Ready to murder innocent people if he didn’t tell her what she wanted to know.

Arthur wished again that Morgana had not caught Merlin off his guard. He wanted to see his manservant turn up at his cell, an idiotic grin on his face. But although Arthur did not drop back to sleep, although he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the cell door until the light began streaming in from the small window again, Merlin never appeared.


	18. Chapter 18

“Well, the dragon hasn’t come back,” Gwaine announced when he woke. He had an idea of what to expect, having been held captive by Morgana before. That she’d split them up this time around proved that she’d learned something, as it would be a lot more difficult to share the food he earned with the others.

He hoped Gaius was doing well, especially since he hadn’t held up very well last time—and that was when he’d had access to food, something Gwaine wasn’t sure Morgana would be willing to provide this time. He knew he’d first come to yesterday with a nasty bump on his head, and he knew from the matted mess of his hair that it had been bleeding. But he hadn’t felt any need to worry the others about it. He knew from experience that head wounds bled a lot anyway, and he’d had worse.

“I thought you’d slain the last dragon, Arthur,” Gwaine said cheerfully. “Where did this one come from?”

Arthur didn’t answer him.

Now, that didn’t particularly surprise Gwaine. Arthur was likely already in a sullen mood which wouldn’t be improved by Gwaine’s remarks, but sometimes he was able to get a reaction out of Arthur this way. All he needed to do was keep prodding him. 

He’d been told often enough by his mother when he’d been a child to let sleeping dogs lie, but it was much more fun to wake them up.

“Because it’s not a wyvern, you know. I’ve seen more than enough of those up close to know the difference. This creature doesn’t even look like it has any wyvern blood in it.”

“Arthur’s not here.” Gaius’s voice. He sounded tired. Gwaine wondered if he’d slept much, if at all. “I’m surprised you didn’t wake when Morgana came for him.”

So was Gwaine, to be honest. He wasn’t usually a particularly heavy sleeper; he was too often in situations which demanded he wake at the smallest sound. Such a tendency had saved both his life and his purse many a time in the past.

Maybe he should be a bit more worried about the injuries he’d sustained yesterday than he was.

“When was that?” Gwaine asked.

“A quarter hour, no more. If she keeps him no longer than the first time, we shall see him again shortly.”

This wasn’t the first time Morgana had come to fetch Arthur? That couldn’t be good. Quite aside from the fact that he shouldn’t have slept through it, multiple visits to or from Morgana never amounted to much good. “Have you talked to him? Does he know what she’s up to?”

Silence for a moment. Then, “She is intent on finding Emrys.”

Gwaine’s eyebrows shot up of their own accord. “You mean Arthur figured out it’s Dragoon and she hasn’t?”

There was a longer silence this time, and Gwaine wondered if Gaius was even going to answer him. Finally, in a quiet voice, Gaius said, “It’s not that. Morgana would have first seen Dragoon in Camelot, and I’ve no doubt that she has since realized that he is Emrys.”

Gwaine frowned. “But Arthur can’t tell her anything more than that.”

Gaius remained silent, and Gwaine realized the truth.

Arthur _could_ tell her more than that.

They all knew he’d been holding something back from them, but Gwaine hadn’t expected it to be this.

To be fair, he wasn’t sure how much Arthur had withheld. Clearly Merlin knew where to find Emrys, so perhaps he’d passed that information on to Arthur after all. Or perhaps…. If Emrys was employing a disguise as Morgana had—for Gwaine had taken one look at her in those clothes and known she’d been the old crone who’d waltzed into the throne room a week ago—then perhaps he was using more than just Dragoon as an alias. 

That would make the most sense of all, for Dragoon to be both disguise and alias. If Emrys’s true identity was as different from Dragoon as Bronwyn was in appearances from Morgana, it was no wonder they’d never found him. It was no wonder that he managed to slip in and out of the castle without anyone noticing. He could be anyone.

And whoever he was, Arthur knew his identity and Morgana did not.

Arthur and Gaius, to judge by Gaius’s comments. And Merlin, unless Gwaine was very much mistaken. He wasn’t sure about Gwen, but he doubted any of the knights knew. Arthur obviously didn’t want the information spread far, and for good reason. There was no need to have more people from which Morgana could torture the truth. 

But if Gwaine was right—if _three_ people knew Emrys’s true identity and, by consequence, his whereabouts—then Morgana had three chances to get what she wanted. She didn’t need to be careful when she questioned them. She didn’t necessarily need to keep them all alive.

Which was unfortunate for Arthur, of course, because right now, that knowledge was likely the only reason Morgana was keeping him alive. He was too much of a threat otherwise. He may have lost the faith of the people now, but he could still regain it. Gwaine highly doubted anyone would prefer to have Morgana on Camelot’s throne in Arthur’s stead.

Morgana may have taken over Camelot right now, but she had not yet secured her place. Gwaine was sure she knew that. Morgana was far from ignorant when it came to such things, after all. Quite aside from the fact that Arthur still had breath in his body, Morgana did not have an army behind her, and the neighbouring kingdoms would know that. 

And by now, the news of her takeover would have spread. 

But instead of making preparations, instead of simply killing Arthur so she faced fewer threats from within, Morgana was taking the time to question Arthur.

“She’s not concerned about keeping Camelot this time,” Gwaine realized.

“I’m sorry?”

He’d already forgotten about Gaius. “Morgana. She’s not prepared to keep Camelot’s throne this time.”

“I daresay she believes she can recapture it again easily enough if that is the case,” Gaius observed. He kept his tone neutral, and Gwaine would bet his sword that he was not saying all he thought.

Well, that was fine, because Gwaine was pretty sure he’d already figured it out for himself. He could understand why Gaius wouldn’t say everything, even if it was only to him and that the chances of them being overheard were slim to nil. The risk was still there, especially when Morgana was desperate. “Yeah,” Gwaine agreed. “And she’s willing to lose it now if it means she can get Emrys.”

There was a long silence. Finally Gaius said, “Indeed.”

“So Emrys really does stand in her way. Arthur wasn’t wrong.” Merlin wasn’t wrong, either, when it came to his decision to trust Emrys—which really shouldn’t surprise Gwaine, given how often Merlin was right about that sort of thing. 

“Indeed.” And though Gwaine couldn’t see Gaius, he could hear the smile in the man’s voice.

Gwaine wondered briefly whether Merlin’s initial trust in Emrys had come through trust of Gaius’s word or if Merlin had discovered Emrys’s true identity and decided that he already—or, perhaps more accurately, still—trusted the man. Merlin was the sort of person who got to know a person’s true character, and his opinion wasn’t likely to change even if he _did_ discover that someone had been hiding a huge secret like that.

It made Gwaine appreciate even more the fact that Merlin hadn’t breathed a word of his secret to anyone. At the very least, he wouldn’t get anywhere near as much enjoyment out of making fun of the nobles—Leon most frequently—if they found out his blood wasn’t as common as they all thought. If there was any reason he shouldn’t keep his own nobility a secret, then he would tell people, but this particular secret wasn’t harming anyone.

And Emrys’s particular secret was clearly saving people, just by being unknown.

Gwaine supposed that, in light of that fact and that he was keeping his own secret, he shouldn’t really hold a grudge if he eventually found out that Emrys was somebody he’d known all along. 

But still. The guy was powerful, and he knew the castle—at the very least—like the back of his hand, judging by all his disappearing acts. Merlin couldn’t have helped him every time. Chances were good that Emrys had been around for a while, long before Dragoon had made his first appearance. Gwaine would guess that he’d at least be old enough to remember what things were like before the Great Purge. How likely was it that his magical skill could have developed so successfully while in hiding? He must’ve learned a good chunk before Uther had outlawed magic. Even Morgana had had to leave Camelot with Morgause to realize her full potential.

Though it would’ve been a lot better for the rest of them if she hadn’t.

“Gwen doesn’t know, does she?” Gwaine asked. “About Emrys?” Gaius didn’t answer, so Gwaine pressed, “Arthur didn’t tell her? Not like he told you and Merlin?” It was risky, voicing that last bit, but Gaius wouldn’t tell him anything otherwise.

“To my knowledge,” Gaius replied quietly, “Arthur has not said anything to anyone.”

Gaius hadn’t denied his knowledge, nor Merlin’s, which meant they had known beforehand. If he’d had any doubts, Gaius had just wiped them away. No wonder Merlin had so much faith in a sorcerer. 

“So he won’t tell Morgana,” Gwaine said confidently.

Gaius’s silence did nothing to help matters.

“It’s _Morgana_ ,” Gwaine continued. “Arthur will never tell her anything—especially if he didn’t even tell us.” True, Arthur’s silence meant he was protecting a sorcerer, but if this sorcerer really had saved them all, then he had good reason for it. 

It wasn’t that Arthur was being manipulated into changing the laws, as Elyan had suggested—a sentiment shared by too many of Camelot’s citizens for Arthur’s own good. No, it was that Arthur had finally been presented with proof that not all magic was as twisted at it appeared. He’d had his eyes opened to its benefits, things he’d been blind to before. And he’d actually used his head for once and realized that it wasn’t all as bad as it usually seemed.

Neither Merlin nor Arthur had ever given Gwaine a very satisfactory explanation for Emrys’s threat—he knew he hadn’t misheard it and it sure as hell hadn’t been a joke—but now, in light of what he’d figured out from Morgana’s actions, he’d stop holding it against the man.

Mostly.

He’d had days when he’d wanted to kill Arthur, too. Heck, so had Merlin, according to Leon. It was Arthur. It was understandable. He was a prat. But most days he was a prat worth following, so Gwaine was loyal to him.

He might not give Arthur any more respect than he deserved, which at times really wasn’t a lot, but he was still loyal to him.

Arthur truly did want what was best for Camelot; Morgana wanted what was best for herself. And if Emrys was on Arthur’s side, then of course Arthur would protect him. He’d protect him just as he’d protect any of them. And no matter how desperate Morgana got, Arthur wouldn’t breathe a word to her.

She’d kill him for that, most likely, and then getting out of this situation would be made infinitely more difficult, but so long as Morgana still _thought_ she could break Arthur, she’d keep him alive.

Providing she figured he was the easiest one to get to talk, given the risk keeping him alive carried.

Gaius and Merlin were giving their best impressions of being ignorant of everything, but if he could figure out that they knew something, chances were good that Morgana could, too.

But Gwaine was convinced that Gaius and Merlin would also die before they’d give up Emrys to Morgana—especially since, as far as he could tell, they hadn’t even given him up to Arthur when the king had been searching everywhere for him. They knew the risks that helping a sorcerer carried, and they’d been taking them for a heck of a lot longer than Arthur had been thinking about making any amendments to the laws. If they’d gotten caught when Uther had still been ruling, they would have been executed.

Unless Emrys had managed to get them out of that situation, had it occurred, and Gwaine was beginning to think the sorcerer could have if he tried. He hoped, similarly, that Emrys could get them out of this situation, too, without getting caught by Morgana.

He certainly wouldn’t complain if it came down to a fight and Morgana was killed in the process, even if it meant he couldn’t get a piece of her himself.

Gwaine knew Merlin was still here, so perhaps he was helping Emrys. He’d heard what Merlin had said to Arthur yesterday and figured Merlin would have said a heck of lot more if he hadn’t been focused on getting away from their guard—or at least not staying too long and somehow having his little visit get back to Morgana. Gwaine didn’t know too much about dragons, but obviously Morgana could communicate with the thing somehow, and he’d be a fool to think it couldn’t communicate with her in return. In light of that, Gwaine had bitten his tongue—just like Gaius had, since Gwaine had no doubt he’d heard everything, too. 

Merlin had said he’d help them, that he’d get them out of here. Gwaine didn’t doubt him for one second. But he’d thought, now that they were no longer being guarded by a dragon that could fry Merlin alive, he might have risked visiting again. But he hadn’t. 

Morgana hadn’t been gloating and Merlin hadn’t joined them, so Gwaine hoped that meant he hadn’t been caught. Unfortunately, he was well aware of Merlin’s skills—or lack thereof—when it came to stealth. That Merlin _had_ been caught and was just being kept somewhere else was a distinct possibility.

But maybe not, if Emrys was helping him. If they were working together, then maybe this was all some sort of plan, and Merlin would turn up soon enough. Or maybe Emrys had told Merlin to escape while _he_ dealt with this so Merlin wouldn’t be in the same danger as the rest of them.

Gwaine was fairly certain Merlin would refuse to do that, though. He wouldn’t want to leave them, even if it did mean he risked being captured by Morgana.

Merlin was loyal and stubborn, too, and he took that to the point of recklessness more often than not.

So Gwaine hoped he’d return soon, if only to give them a water skin—or, better yet, a wineskin. Or something filled with mead. Although even he had to admit that water would be best in this case, since Morgana was unlikely to supply any anytime soon.

Gwaine wondered how long she’d wait this time before she’d have him fight for his bread, and he wondered who he’d be fighting.

He’d almost suspect Merlin if she had managed to capture him, seeing as Morgana would expect a fight to the death and she didn’t like either of them, but he also knew she actually wanted a fight.

He hoped she wouldn’t pit him against Arthur, although the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced she would—at least once Arthur made it clear he wasn’t going to tell her anything.

Gaius wouldn’t say anything. He’d been put through this sort of thing by Morgana’s hand before, the time he’d been captured and made to look like a traitor. He hadn’t said anything then, either. Gwaine was convinced that if they hadn’t rescued Gaius when they had, she would have killed him.

Well, chances were good Agravaine would have killed him—Gwaine was more convinced than ever that he’d walked in at just the right moment—but it would have been on Morgana’s orders.

Which left Merlin.

Merlin could keep secrets. Gwaine knew that. Merlin could keep secrets very well—to the point that it was difficult to suspect he knew them. But if Morgana believed he knew something, Merlin might be the easiest one to get to speak.

If Merlin’s actions of the past were any indication, all Morgana would have to do would be to threaten not Merlin himself but Arthur.

Especially if Merlin believed Emrys could find a way out of this situation anyway.

Or, Gwaine supposed, Merlin could lie. Come up with some ridiculous story and pretend someone _else_ was Emrys. But Merlin wasn’t likely to do that to just anyone. Gaius might offer to step in and pretend to be the sorcerer, since he seemed to feel strongly about this as well and actually had magic, but Merlin probably wouldn’t take him up on it. In fact, he almost certainly wouldn’t claim Emrys was anyone but himself.

Gwaine could picture it now, Merlin claiming to be Emrys. The thought brought a smile to his lips. Merlin would do anything for Arthur; giving up his own life, even if it was just to buy them a bit of time, would be something he’d do without hesitation. And if protecting Emrys meant protecting Arthur, well…. Merlin had done it before.

It was almost a shame Morgana would see right through it immediately. 

That was the trouble with lying, really—she’d seen through most of their claims almost immediately. She’d lived with them. She’d once been one of them. She’d be able to identify a lie easily enough. 

Heck, just _knowing_ some of the people ruled them out.

Which meant Merlin might just be left with the truth, if it came down to it.

Gwaine hadn’t been expecting Gaius to say any more, but when Gaius did finally speak, Gwaine wished he hadn’t. “Arthur is strong,” Gaius said quietly, “and I’ve little doubt he would be prepared to die before saying anything to Morgana. But Morgana practices enough dark magic that she knows how to make people talk, even if they are unwilling.”

Gaius would know that better than anyone, and Gwaine suddenly wondered if he _had_ said something the time he’d been captured.

But if he had, it couldn’t have been about Emrys, since Morgana didn’t know who he was any more than Gwaine did. So perhaps this was just Gaius’s way of telling him not to get his hopes up because someone might crack, no matter how desperate they were to keep a secret. Gwaine had been in enough situations to be able to imagine—rather accurately—the sorts of measures where it might come to that.

Still, there was something to be said for willpower. And determination. And stubbornness, which Arthur had in spades.

“Arthur will never tell her anything,” Gwaine repeated firmly.

“I dearly hope you’re right, my boy, for all our sakes.”

-|-

Arthur was being spectacularly stubborn, but Morgana had expected no less of him. “I am hardly the fool you think me to be,” she bit out sharply. “I know you know of Emrys, Arthur. You needn’t continue to pretend otherwise.”

Arthur remained silent.

To be fair, he was still trying to regain his breath after she’d choked him for a minute or so to prove just how _easy_ it would be for her to be rid of him once and for all, but she doubted he’d volunteer much even if she hadn’t. What she hoped was that he was realizing that Emrys would not step in and save him. If the man intended it, he surely would have acted by now.

But he hadn’t.

He hadn’t tried to curse her again—although she’d been more than aware of that possibility and taken precautions against it—and he hadn’t confronted her. She hadn’t even seen him.

She had no doubt that he knew what she was doing, but clearly he wasn’t going to act. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps, once she was truly serious about killing Arthur, he’d step forward and sacrifice himself. But as long as she was simply playing, he clearly valued his secret more than Arthur’s well-being.

She hadn’t thought it of him, to be honest, but she was content to see Arthur squirm in the meantime.

“ _Forbærne yfel_ ,” she whispered, noticing with satisfaction that Arthur’s eyes went wide and he instinctively scrambled away from her as the ring of fire sprang up around him. She noted with amusement the precise moment he realized he couldn’t go any farther. With a laugh, she said, “Biting your tongue will only make things worse. I’ve been playing nice.” When Arthur still refused to say anything, she barked another word, and the flames grew higher. “All you need to do,” she growled, “is tell me who Emrys is!”

“I don’t know,” Arthur repeated.

Morgana allowed the circle of flames to shrink—not quite close enough to burn, not yet, but certainly close enough that the heat would soon feel unbearable—and forced Arthur to his feet. “Who do you want to die first? Your knight or your servant?” One of Arthur’s most dependable weaknesses was for his people. He would sacrifice himself to save them. He didn’t seem to understand the folly of it.

Arthur didn’t answer her.

“Both of them, then?” she sneered. “It will be ridiculously easy to arrange it, and I’d be sure you were here for the show.”

Arthur said nothing for a very long time, but she knew him well enough to know he’d say something now, and she waited. Finally, “Emrys….” Arthur faltered. “Emrys is….” He broke off again. “Don’t you already _know_ who Emrys is?”

“ _Answer me_ ,” Morgana snarled. “Who is Emrys?”

“You’ve met him before,” Arthur said quietly, his voice sounded more defeated than she’d expected by this point. And when Arthur continued, she knew precisely _why_ he was putting on such a show. “He’s…. Emrys is Dragoon, Morgana. I thought you knew already.”

She _did_ know that already, and it wasn’t what she wanted to know—especially since she was convinced Arthur knew the truth. She’d long since realized that Emrys was going by another name—something _other_ than Dragoon—or he wouldn’t be able to get so close to Arthur. He had a disguise just as she’d had, but she didn’t know what he looked like or who he was pretending to be.

The only person she knew of with magic who was close enough to Arthur to constantly protect him was Gaius, and she knew Gaius was not Emrys.

Gaius knew who Emrys was, however, though he would never tell her. He’d let the secret slip once, and whatever he’d said had turned Alator against her; he would not let himself live to tell the secret again. He thought too highly of Emrys to risk it.

Her best chance was forcing the truth from Arthur, threatening not his life but those of his people, of his _friends_. And she would make sure he knew she wasn’t going to be fooled by his petty lies and half truths. “Your knight or your servant?” she repeated.

“I told you what you wanted to know!” Arthur insisted.

“I want to know who he _really_ is, Arthur,” she snapped. Once she did, he wouldn’t be able to hide from her any longer. “I want to know who he is and I want to know where he is, and if you don’t tell me….” She let the threat hang unspoken in the air.

Arthur stared at her defiantly from behind the wall of flickering flames. He said nothing.

Morgana yelled for the guard and was pleased when he appeared; it seemed that yesterday’s examples stood for something, as no one else was attempting to run off or to disobey her. “Fetch them,” she said shortly. The man would know who she meant; she’d made her intent clear earlier. 

After a fearful glance in Arthur’s direction, the man stuttered, “Y-yes, my lady,” and fled.

Morgana turned back to Arthur. She could see the small spark of fear in his eyes now. He’d kept it well hidden before, but the knowledge that she did not make idle threats had caused his eyes to betray him. His mask had slipped.

She debated taunting him, but silence seemed to be more effective. Arthur’s imagination ought to supply more than enough fodder to fuel his fears. She didn’t need to say anything else. 

The doors at the end of the hall were nudged fully open, and Aithusa walked carefully in. Morgana noted with satisfaction that Arthur’s eyes followed the dragon’s every move. Morgana, pleased that Aithusa had known to come, moved to stroke the dragon’s head. “We’ll have some entertainment soon,” she cooed softly.

Aithusa chirped back at her, and Arthur jumped. Morgana ignored him, preferring to murmur to her one true companion. She looked up at the sound of footsteps, seeing the guard return with the knight, Gwaine.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Begging your pardon, my lady,” the man said, shoving Gwaine in front of her and dropping into a low bow. “But the servant—”

Gwaine had scrambled back to his feet, but before he could go any farther, Morgana saw him encased in a circle of flames as she had Arthur. “The servant?” she prompted dangerously.

“He’s gone,” the man whimpered.

“Gone?” Morgana repeated, her mind immediately flying to Emrys. Why would he free the servant and not the knight, not the physician, not the king himself? “He was there this morning. I saw him myself. How would he get out of there in such a short time when he had been unable to escape all night?”

The man began to stammer out his excuses, but Morgana had had enough. Her eyes burned gold, and with little more than a slight jerk of her head, she snapped his neck. He fell to the floor, dead. She turned back to Arthur, her expression souring when she saw him looking victorious.

“This isn’t over,” she said.

“Emrys will defeat you,” Arthur said confidently.

“No.” She spoke the word quietly. “Emrys will have the choice, Arthur. He can give himself up to me, or he can watch you die. Tell me, what do you think he’ll choose?”

When Arthur fell silent again, Morgana smiled.


	19. Chapter 19

Merlin had spent a good portion of the night talking to Aithusa. 

She didn’t respond, but she understood, even when he did not speak in her tongue. He’d given his fair share of commands, of course. He couldn’t let her do any more damage than she already had. 

He’d slipped in to the great hall—where Morgana had left the dragon to feast after Aithusa had returned from burning the lower town—once Morgana had left. He’d been sure to keep his ears open for signs of Morgana’s return but otherwise wasn’t worried about being disturbed. No one else would willingly step into the dragon’s den when the dragon was present.

Aithusa had sent off a spout of fire in his direction before he’d even opened his mouth, so he couldn’t blame anyone for being cautious. If he hadn’t been able to block it by conjuring a shield, his reflexes honed by the time Kilgharrah had tried it before….

But he had, and she’d stopped, and _then_ he’d been able to talk to her alone.

He wasn’t sure she remembered him, to be perfectly honest. From the way she’d been acting, he rather doubted it. But he supposed that shouldn’t surprise him, as he hadn’t seen her much since her hatching—once, maybe twice, but no more. He hadn’t wanted to draw attention to her by calling her and Kilgharrah to him very often, however much the dragon hatchling had intrigued him. 

Besides, he still wasn’t sure of all the responsibilities that came with being a Dragonlord, and the young dragon had also seemed to symbolize his failings in that respect. He did his best, with Kilgharrah’s help, but he wasn’t wholly comfortable with what being a Dragonlord meant. 

The painful reminder of his father and how much had been left unsaid between them didn’t help much, either.

But they were kin, and Aithusa had been reminded of that bond by now. 

He still wasn’t entirely sure why she was helping Morgana—or why she was even _with_ Morgana in the first place—but he’d gotten the impression that Aithusa felt a sort of kinship with Morgana as well and that they had developed a mutual, caring companionship of which Merlin hadn’t even thought Morgana capable anymore.

Which meant that Aithusa was misguided, but she was loyal to Morgana all the same, and Merlin wouldn’t be able to change that with a few words.

But he’d at least managed to impress upon Aithusa that _he_ wasn’t the enemy—although she might change her mind about that if he was forced to attack Morgana and she witnessed it. For now, though, she didn’t seem to mind obeying his commands. She wouldn’t be fighting him every step of the way, and that would make things infinitely easier.

Truth be told, he hadn’t meant to spend as much time with Aithusa as he had. He’d had a number of things he’d hoped to accomplish before dawn that simply hadn’t happened. Now, as the lightening sky began to spread, Merlin began scrambling to do as much as possible. 

He wouldn’t have a chance to see Arthur, Gaius, or Gwaine—at least not when he had yet to abscond with a key so that he could believably release them, and it wasn’t time for another visit when he already had a very good idea of the present situation. He didn’t have time to collect what he needed from Gaius’s stores to begin brewing any more anti-aging potions—just in case, of course, for he didn’t like the thought that he could openly do magic twice and no more. He wouldn’t be able to find someone to send after Gwen, to assure her that Emrys had it all in hand.

That last wasn’t necessarily true, but he feared that if she came back, Morgana would have her killed—if not to satisfy her own sense of revenge, then to weaken Arthur. And whatever army she could muster wouldn’t stand for much against a High Priestess of the Old Religion.

Merlin was on his own.

If Gwen and the knights and whoever else they could convince to stand by them came back, it would only mean that many more people Morgana could hurt, and Merlin was not about to let that happen.

But he _really_ didn’t want to deliver that message himself. Right now, he’d rather risk that the others would plan a rescue attempt and try to execute it than risk leaving Arthur and the others alone with Morgana.

He already had mixed feelings about stealing through the castle in secret like this, flitting through the servant’s passageways with more ease than usual—they were rather empty, even now that the remaining servants were up and about—instead of being with the others and knowing what was happening, but this was for the best.

Merlin was heading for the kitchens to swipe a bit of food for the day when he noticed that one of the rooms used to house some of the lesser staff that came with visiting delegates was locked.

True, such rooms were usually kept closed. He had nearly walked by it entirely, but some sound had caught his attention. Now that he stopped, he realized he was hearing hear a low muttering and the faint scraping of metal on metal. Someone was trying to pick the lock. If there had been anyone else about, he might have missed it entirely. 

Normally, Merlin wouldn’t open doors without finding out what—or, in this case, who—was behind them, but he figured that if Morgana had locked someone in, it would be in his best interest to let them out.

Especially since he hadn’t had the right opportunity to do so for the others.

“ _Tospringe_ ,” Merlin whispered.

The lock clicked and sprung open, sparking a triumphant exclamation from behind the door. Merlin stepped back as it swung open, and he found himself face to face with George.

“Merlin?” George asked, sounding surprised. He straightened up immediately, one hand reaching to smooth his disarrayed hair. He hardly looked the proper servant he usually was—especially when he was still had a white-knuckled grip on a fire poker, the point of which was just short of being finely tapered enough to truly spring the lock on the door. “You’re here?”

Merlin knew what that meant: _You didn’t go with the others and you’re still free?_ Everyone may not know that he had actively acted against Morgana before, but everyone _did_ know that he was loyal to Arthur, and Morgana wasn’t taking kindly to those people at the moment.

Merlin lifted a finger to his lips and pushed George farther back into the room, closing the door behind them. “Morgana hasn’t seen me yet. Others have, but they haven’t said anything. What are you doing in here?”

“Morgana saw me,” George answered simply. He sniffed, his disdain for her clear. “I suppose I should be thankful,” he said. “I saw….” He broke off. Then, carefully, “I saw others who were not so lucky.”

Merlin’s mouth twisted. “She was probably planning to use you as a bargaining chip.”

“I feared as much,” George replied stiffly. “That is why I….” He trailed off and held up the fire poker. Merlin glanced around and realized that it was far from the first thing George had tried. He suspected that if they had been a bit closer to the ground floor, he would have tried escaping out the window—even if he’d had to break it to do so.

Considering this was George, who was aghast at the idea of a wrinkled sheet and who would never contemplate breaking a rule under ordinary circumstances, let alone breaking a window, that was saying something. 

“Well, you’re out now,” Merlin said, his voice slightly less encouraging than he’d like. “Look, I’m going to stay here to see what I can do. I….” He bit his lip, wondering how much to say, and then said, “I spoke to Emrys. He’s going to be doing everything he can, but he might need help, so I’m going to help him. But I need you to tell that to Gwen. I don’t need her and the knights to come charging back here quite yet, because Emrys said he needs a bit of time to get everything done. And Morgana would….” Merlin trailed off. “They’d be coming to a slaughter if they came now. Morgana isn’t taking many prisoners. Not official ones, anyway.”

“You know Emrys?”

Merlin hesitated, but he’d gone too far to change his story now. “Yes. He really is here, and he really is a sorcerer who’s trying to help. That much is true.”

George looked grim. “Then let us hope he has better luck dealing with Morgana than I.” At Merlin’s questioning look, he divulged quietly, “I took it upon myself to deliver her her dinner last night, and she did not find the mushrooms to her taste.” A pause. “A pity. I had hoped that I had cut them small enough that she would not be able to identify them.”

Merlin blinked. “You tried to poison her?” Morgana would not fall prey to such tricks again. She’d learned too much to make the same mistake twice.

Of course, part of him wondered where George had even gotten his hands on poisonous mushrooms in the first place, but Merlin was beginning to suspect that he shouldn’t underestimate George and his resourcefulness any more than George should underestimate him.

“She does not belong on Camelot’s throne.”

Merlin had always known that George was loyal to Arthur, but he hadn’t thought his loyalty had extended to taking such grave risks. Morgana could have killed him on the spot; in light of what George had said, he was rather surprised she hadn’t. Instead, she’d decided to kill him later, perhaps thinking she had more to gain from his death if she turned things in her favour.

Arthur had risked his life for Merlin when he’d known him little better than he did George, and Morgana knew that. She no doubt thought he would do so again, valuing the lives of mere servants above his own.

Well, that wasn’t strictly true. Morgana wouldn’t give Arthur the choice—nothing so easy as his life or George’s. But she’d certainly threaten to kill George—and him, if she caught him—in a very painful way if Arthur did not give her what she wanted.

Merlin didn’t want Morgana to know, but if it came down to it…. He’d give his life for Arthur’s. But if he was going to do that, he needed to have the assurance that it wouldn’t be in vain. If he had to take Morgana down with him—if she wouldn’t simply agree to leave if he went with her without protest—then he would.

“No,” Merlin agreed softly, “she doesn’t.”

George nodded solemnly, smoothed down his rumpled clothes, and asked, “What is the precise message you wish for me to deliver to Queen Guinevere?”

“Gwen,” Merlin corrected automatically. “And they’ll be…. I’m not entirely sure where. Somewhere in the forest. Are you any good at tracking?”

“I’ll become good at it if I am not,” George replied with a fierce determination that belied the image of the dull servant as Merlin usually thought of him. 

His respect for George climbed a notch higher, and Merlin said, “Tell her Emrys is here, that I’m helping him, and not to come back right now no matter how much she and everyone else wants to. Make sure she knows that they’re safer where they are and that _Arthur_ ’s safer if they stay where they are. And tell her….” He trailed off, then said, “Tell her Emrys says she’s welcome.”

George raised his eyebrows, clearly confused by the last bit, but he didn’t question it. He repeated the message to Merlin, getting it right—word for word, no less—immediately. Merlin wished he’d already been to the kitchens so he could at least send George off with some rations, but they couldn’t risk delaying any longer.

Morgana could come for him at any time.

“Good luck,” Merlin said as George started for the door.

The other servant paused and looked back at him. He opened his mouth as if to say something but, in the end, he just nodded. A few seconds later, he was out the door and gone.

Merlin waited a moment and then disappeared himself. First to the kitchens, for he needed something to sustain him because he’d need his strength, and then….

Well, then it would be time for Morgana to have a visit from her nightmares.

-|-

The next time Gaius heard movement, he expected it to be Morgana again. Instead, it was Merlin, carrying a water skin and a few scraps of bread. “Merlin, what are you doing here?” Gaius asked as Merlin opened the locked cell with nothing more than a word.

“I wanted to make sure you were all right,” Merlin replied, handing over the water skin first. 

Gaius frowned but took it gratefully and drank carefully. “You should not have come here,” he chastised gently.

“It’s not the greatest risk I’m going to be taking,” Merlin said quietly. 

“Merlin—”

“I don’t have very many choices, Gaius,” Merlin interrupted. “Morgana won’t stop until she gets what she wants—not unless I stop her first. I can’t just sit back and do nothing and watch while she….” He shook his head.

Gaius gave Merlin an even look. “I highly doubt you’re doing nothing, my boy,” he said. 

“But I have to do more,” Merlin insisted. “Gaius, Arthur and Gwaine are with her right now. That’s what they’re saying in the kitchens, anyway. And you’re still here, and she could drag you in next. I can’t let that happen. She’s killing anyone who stands against her, Gaius. She’ll kill you. She’ll kill everyone.”

“Morgana is not known for her mercy,” Gaius reminded him.

“She had George locked up in one of the spare chambers,” Merlin said. “I let him go, Gaius, but if I hadn’t found him…. She would have killed him. Probably in front of Arthur. Because of _me_.”

“It’s not because of you.”

Merlin didn’t listen to him. “She’s looking for Emrys. Of _course_ it’s because of me! I can’t let any more people die for me, Gaius.” He held out the bread, and Gaius took it. “You have to go.”

“Merlin—” Gaius tried again.

“It’s too dangerous for you to stay here,” Merlin cut in, overriding his protests easily. “The coast is clear now. I sent George with a message for Gwen and the knights. If he can find them, you can certainly find them. Go there, and be safe.”

“I’m not going to leave you.”

“You have to.” Merlin’s voice wasn’t pleading; rather, it held a note of definiteness that defied argument. “You know the truth, and Morgana knows you do. If she can’t get it out of you, she’ll kill you. She’s already worked out that Arthur knows. She doesn’t _need_ you, Gaius, and if she doesn’t need you….” He trailed off. Then, stronger even than before, “You have to go.”

This was one of the rare times when he would not win an argument with his ward, and Gaius knew it. 

Merlin had grown substantially from the boy he had been when he had first come to Camelot, and Gaius was proud of the man he had become.

Even knowing that that man was prone to making sacrifices from which he may never recover.

“Be careful, Merlin.”

Merlin gave him a small smile and pressed the rest of the bread into his hands. “Thank you, Gaius.” He flung his arms around him and whispered, “I hope I’ll see you again.” He’d backed off before Gaius had a chance to reciprocate, and added, “Morgana’s not blocked off the tunnels yet. You may be able to catch George if you’re quick.” 

And then he was gone, out of the cell and dashing away from the dungeons like the madman he surely was.

Gaius’s heart ached.

He should be here for Merlin, but Merlin was right. He could do little here right now, and it was more than likely someone in Gwen’s company needed help she couldn’t give alone. And the fewer people Merlin had to worry about, the more focused he could be. He was a strong young man. He would be all right.

“Be careful, Merlin,” Gaius repeated, even though Merlin was long gone. “Please, for my sake, be careful.”

-|-

_Clunk_.

Morgana was the first of them to hear it, Aithusa aside. She knew this because the other two did not react. True, they were exhausted and rather preoccupied with various aches and pains—she’d made sure of that—but that was no reason not to be on guard. She could have put them through worse. She still intended to, even if it wasn’t strictly necessary.

_Clunk_.

It was getting closer. She didn’t need to see the source to be certain of it. The feeling that filled her and the way her magic seemed to flinch away…. She knew the cause, what was behind it all. 

She knew _who_ it was, the only one it could truly be.

_Clunk_.

She’d wanted this, however. And she was prepared. He was foolish if he thought she would cower away from him this time, for her magic was stronger than ever before and _she would not fall to him_. 

_Clunk_.

The other two had finally dragged themselves to coherent enough states to realize that what they were hearing was not simply a pounding inside their own heads. It was the dull, heavy thud of wood on stone. The strides were purposeful, not burdened. Something that might be a walking stick under different circumstances, then, but was, she suspected, a staff to channel magic, to strengthen and focus it. 

She had him scared, then. Perhaps only a little, but scared nonetheless.

Scared of what might happen and what she might very well do.

_Clunk_.

The doors at the back of the room were blasted open in a wave of powerful magic. Had she not been ready for it, expecting some such thing at any moment, she might have staggered. As it was, it was enough to stir her hair and tug at her dress and nearly extinguished the flames that surrounded both Arthur and Gwaine.

She took a deep breath but did not let any of her fear show. This was Emrys, yes. He stood there in his mask, staff clutched in one hand—it looked familiar somehow, but she couldn’t place it—and the other hand at his side, empty. He looked as he always had—trailing white beard, red robe—and she was infuriated that she could not see beneath the mask he’d made for himself.

He barked a few quick words—“ _Acwence þa bælblyse_ ,” something that wouldn’t have worked as well as it did if she’d poured more power into her spell—and the fiery circle around her prisoners died away instantly.

She still didn’t move.

“Morgana,” he said, coming into the room now. “Haven’t you a greeting for your guest?”

Teasing, taunting. Pretending he wasn’t afraid of her. But he wasn’t really afraid of _her_. She knew that. He was afraid of what she would do with Arthur.

“Emrys,” she said flatly.

He was looking at Arthur and Gwaine without truly taking his eyes off of her. “Let them go.”

She wasn’t going to wasting time talking to him. She threw out a hand and shouted, “ _Ástríce_!” The spell had hardly rolled off her tongue before she bit out, “ _Forbærne_! _Ácwele_!”

“ _Sclidan_.” He didn’t even bother strengthening the spell by using the staff—didn’t _need_ to, for all that it was large enough to safely shield him, Arthur, and the knight. Her fireballs rolled harmlessly off of it and dissipated as they hit stone. Her first attack hadn’t thrown him at all, although she would guess that he’d cast a spell without speaking before she’d assume that she’d missed such an easy target. “I don’t want to fight you, Morgana.”

His hand dropped, and she yelled, “ _Ablinn ðu; forlæte ðu nu_!” It was a more powerful spell, and this time she managed to throw him off his feet. He was flung into the back wall with a sickening crack.

She didn’t see him move.

Her surprise at the retaliation lasted too long, and she wasn’t jarred back to reality until the breath was torn from her body and her very bones rattled as she collided with stone herself.

She wouldn’t win if she kept fighting him now. She was stronger than before, but she wasn’t at her strongest. She’d expended too much energy of late. She’d be a fool to carry on now, to let him wear her away to nothing. She’d been fool enough already, thinking she could challenge him when she wasn’t at her best. But she’d needed to draw him out somehow, and now he was here.

She’d succeeded in that, at least, which meant his movements were still predictable. And it meant that he would have to bend to her will if she gave him suitable motivation. With the last of her strength, Morgana focused on Arthur, murmured, “ _Bedyrne ús; astýre ús þanonweard_ ,” and _pulled_.

-|-

Emrys groaned.

Gwaine kept his eyes locked on the dragon, which also hadn’t moved. “You all right?” he called.

Emrys grunted, and Gwaine heard him getting slowly to his feet. “Do you think I’m all right?” he retorted. “I was aching before I even came in here.” Then, no doubt following Gwaine’s gaze, “Aithusa won’t attack us. You don’t have to worry.”

Gwaine snorted. “You know a dragon’s mind?”

“I asked her nicely,” Emrys said bluntly. Before Gwaine realized it, Emrys was in front of him and holding out a hand. He was confident enough—Gwaine would say _foolish enough_ , but he knew the power of the sorcerer—to turn his back on the dragon. “Come on. We need to find out where Morgana took the king.”

Arthur had vanished alongside Morgana, and Gwaine was questioning their wisdom of not trying to sneak out while the sorcerers had been fighting. “So you don’t want him dead?”

“No. I wouldn’t be fighting for him if I didn’t believe in him, Gwaine. Just like you wouldn’t.”

It wasn’t the explanation Gwaine still wanted, but the words were honest enough. He gripped Emrys’s hand—he was strong for an old man—and carefully pulled himself to his feet. “Merlin going to join us?” he asked. Emrys just looked at him, so Gwaine added, “I know he helps you.”

Silence for a moment longer, then, “No. I sent Merlin down to the dungeons to free Gaius. Would’ve freed you, too, if you’d been there.” An exaggerated sigh. “Suppose I’m stuck with you, then, since you’re not.” A pause, during which searching blue eyes swept him up and down. “Are you well enough to walk?”

“I’m standing, aren’t I?” Gwaine returned. But even he had to admit he wasn’t standing as tall as he’d like to be. Morgana hadn’t broken anything—yet—but if he hadn’t cracked a rib, he’d definitely bruised a few of them. It hurt to breathe deeply, so he didn’t. His head was pounding—today hadn’t done anything for yesterday’s injury—and he suspected that he couldn’t walk without a limp, but he’d been through worse. 

Last time had been worse.

This time hadn’t progressed very far, but Gwaine had little doubt that Morgana intended to surpass last time.

“I can heal you slightly, if you wish,” Emrys offered quietly.

Gwaine shook his head. “I’m fine.”

Emrys’s eyes narrowed. “You’re pigheaded,” he said, “like your king.”

Gwaine forgot himself for a moment and shrugged, which immediately prompted a wince as pain raced through his body.

Emrys snorted. “You don’t need to put on a brave face for me,” he said frankly. “If you don’t trust me, you don’t trust me. But Merlin’s let me heal him some, if that’s enough to change your mind.”

Gwaine wondered if Emrys had healed Merlin whenever Merlin had gotten hurt doing whatever Emrys had wanted him to do. He supposed he must have. And then he wondered, if Merlin had done all these things without telling them…. What else had he been keeping from them, besides the fact that he not only knew of Emrys but actually _knew_ Emrys and helped him? 

Merlin hadn’t been born in Camelot. He wouldn’t have the same ingrained fear of magic that permeated the entire population of the kingdom. But he wasn’t a fool, either. He would know that helping a sorcerer meant he was always risking his own life, yet he trusted Emrys enough to do it time and time again. 

Merlin was a good judge of character.

He wouldn’t base his entire opinion of a person on something they were supposed to do or supposed to have done. He wouldn’t assume he could trust Emrys solely because of what was said about him. 

Emrys had won Merlin’s trust, and that wasn’t necessarily an easy thing to do. Moreover, he’d _kept_ Merlin’s trust, despite threatening Arthur—something infinitely harder to do. 

And he had just saved them—well, him—from Morgana.

And the dragon still wasn’t attacking, just like he’d said.

“I can walk,” Gwaine said carefully, “but I wouldn’t be able to run.”

“So let me help a bit so you could if you had to.” The words were spoken in a tone that told Gwaine quite clearly Emrys would think him a complete idiot if he refused. 

That wasn’t why Gwaine relented, though; he relented because Merlin trusted this man, and he trusted Merlin. 

“Hold this,” Emrys said, shoving the staff into Gwaine’s hands. “You look like you need it more than I do right now.” He held his own gnarled hands out in front of him and chanted, “ _Ic hæle þina þrowunga_.” His eyes burned gold as he did so—the same fire that lit Morgana’s eyes whenever she incanted spells, no less wild in the slightest—and Gwaine felt the pain spike suddenly before dulling to something much more bearable.

He handed the staff back to Emrys and stretched carefully. He was pleasantly surprised he could do so without fire racing through every nerve in his body. That was a nice change. “Thank you,” he said.

Emrys nodded once, sharply. “Thank you for trusting me. Now are you going to follow Gaius like you should, or are you going to help me find Arthur?” 

Gwaine grinned. Emrys hadn’t given him the choice before, but there wasn’t really any choice in the matter anyway. “Let’s go find the rightful king of Camelot.” And if Morgana got a taste of her own medicine in the process, then that was all the better.


	20. Chapter 20

“So.” Gwaine let the word hang, hoping Emrys would start talking. Most people did, since they weren’t comfortable with silence.

That didn’t happen this time, though. Emrys kept up a relatively quick pace, though how he knew where they were going, Gwaine couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that Emrys wasn’t even glancing at half the rooms they passed.

“Merlin helps you,” Gwaine finally said.

Emrys grunted. “Thought you said you knew that already.”

“Yes, but….” Gwaine didn’t like how easily Emrys had turned this around on him. It was always so much easier getting information out of people at the tavern. “I don’t know how.”

“He’s got young legs, sharp eyes, and big ears,” Emrys said without looking at Gwaine. “How do you _think_ he helps?”

“So he’s the one who tells you everything that’s happening in Camelot?”

“Not everything.”

_But most things_. From Emrys’s answer, that went without saying. “And when he disappears without a word—he’s doing things for you?”

“Usually. Unless he runs into trouble, in which case he’s gone longer than I’d anticipated.” Emrys shot him a sideways glance. “Like the time Morgana captured him.”

Gwaine, knowing he’d hear more of the story if he kept silent, didn’t open his mouth.

“He didn’t spend all that time in the bog,” Emrys added pointedly. “And in the time that he was gone, Morgana enchanted him. Used a Fomorroh. Old dark magic, that, but effective, as you saw. If I hadn’t been able to destroy the Fomorroh, Merlin may have succeeded in killing Arthur, and it would have been on my head.”

_“If you don’t let me go, then there is every chance that I will kill your king!”_

Those had been Emrys’s words. Gwaine remembered them clearly now. But he’d never considered the possibility that Emrys had not meant them literally. It had certainly _sounded_ like he’d meant them literally. And Gwaine could read people well enough to trust that Emrys spoke the truth now. “But Merlin was captured when we were ambushed. How could you be responsible for that?”

“Because I wasn’t able to stop it before it happened. When it did, and when I became aware of the problem, I only had so much time to stop it. If Merlin had succeeded, it would have been disastrous.”

Arthur hadn’t even wed Gwen by that point. There would have been even fewer stopgaps between Morgana and the throne.

“So you never really meant you’d kill Arthur yourself?”

“Not if I’ve any choice in the matter, however much he might deserve it,” Emrys replied shortly. 

“Then why not _tell_ us that? Why tell us you’d kill Arthur if we didn’t let you go when we stopped you?”

“You wouldn’t have believed me.” The response was flat. “And I didn’t have time to convince you.”

“And you thought threatening the king would be faster?”

Emrys snorted at the incredulity in his voice. “It was faster to tell you what you expected to hear.”

Emrys had known exactly what to tell them to spur them to attack him, in which case he could retaliate in kind and get on his way without anyone getting seriously hurt. Their pride had been more bruised than their bodies, though that’s not to say they hadn’t been a bit black and blue after that encounter. 

“How long has Merlin trusted you?” Gwaine asked, well aware that Emrys might not answer but figuring he wouldn’t lose anything by pushing to see what he could get.

“Longer than he has you.”

Gwaine blinked; Emrys didn’t even break his stride. “How did you prove to him that you could be trusted?” That was the answer Gwaine _really_ wanted to hear, because Merlin’s trust in Emrys was unwavering. He’d determined that much from their brief conversation on the matter.

“Same way Merlin got his position as Arthur’s manservant,” Emrys answered. 

So Merlin had seen him save Arthur’s life—with magic, no doubt. Maybe that was why Merlin was always uneasy when the subject of magic came up—because he knew its practice, albeit illegal, was tied to a sorcerer who had managed to save their king. It wasn’t that he was wary of it after all.

Heck, he was probably more comfortable with it than most people in Camelot.

“And, what, he just volunteered to help you?” Gwaine didn’t bother trying to keep the scepticism out of his voice.

“Merlin wants what is best for Arthur and best for Camelot,” Emrys replied—avoiding the question, Gwaine noticed.

“Did you ask him to help you or force him into it?”

Emrys sighed and finally stopped, turning to face Gwaine. “I don’t have to answer your questions,” he snapped, sounding testy now. “If you want to know why Merlin is helping me, ask him. It was his choice.” Emrys glared at Gwaine for a few seconds and then asked, “Why are _you_ helping me?”

“Because Arthur asked us to,” Gwaine responded quietly. “Because I trust him and Merlin and because I trust both of their judgements. And because you’re fighting Morgana.”

“I wish I didn’t have to,” Emrys muttered as he turned away, but he started off again at a brisker pace than before and Gwaine knew the subject was closed.

-|-

The stench of burning flesh filled Leon’s nostrils.

He’d said before that he’d follow Arthur into Hell, and he had, but he hadn’t expected to be back there again so quickly. Certainly not when he was standing on the streets of the lower town, watching the remains of shops and houses smouldering, the smell of wood smoke overpowered by the sickening smell of death and the subsequent disposal of the bodies.

Twenty-four hours earlier, he’d walked these very streets, and the scene had been heart-wrenchingly different.

It hadn’t been hard to find out what happened. The people’s fear had been tangible, but it hadn’t stilled their tongues. _“There was a dragon,”_ they whispered. _“She controls a dragon.”_

Leon hadn’t thought anyone but a Dragonlord could control a dragon, but clearly Morgana was the exception.

He’d hoped to be bringing better news back to Gwen, the knights, and everyone else. As it was, however, they’d be more delighted over the supplies he had gathered to bring back than any of what he had to say.

The best news was that, as far as the people knew, Arthur was still alive.

Frankly, Leon wondered how long that would last. He wasn’t sure Morgana had many reasons to keep Arthur alive, and she had many more to see him dead. They had to act quickly. But even if they managed a surprise attack like last time, sneaking into the castle where they had spent so much of their time, he knew Morgana would be waiting for them—even if she didn’t have an army behind her this time, though Leon rather thought a dragon was one in its own right.

And when they got there, there would be nothing to stop her from striking them down where they stood.

Morgana had Arthur, Gaius, Gwaine, and, most likely, Merlin—along with dozens of other castle staff, though Leon doubted she’d bother with locking them all up if she could sufficiently cow them, and a dragon was a mighty strong incentive to keep in line.

A dragon, and the sick knowledge that everyone who disobeyed was murdered where they stood, with their bodies not given over to their families but instead dumped unceremoniously in plain view and set aflame.

Leon had seen a lot of death in his time and had brought it about himself, but that didn’t mean he was at all accustomed to seeing something so merciless and cruel.

But that was Morgana, these days.

He remembered when he’d once proudly jousted and otherwise competed for the honour of escorting her to various banquets and such. He’d never won, of course—Arthur was still better than he—but he’d enjoyed the spirit of the games and always been thrilled whenever he’d caught the lady Morgana’s eyes on him. She’d been a beauty unmatched across the land. 

But the flower she’d been had withered, slowly but eventually choked out as surely as a hawthorn tree by mistletoe.

Leon shifted his pack. It had been given to him by one of the residents whose home had not burned. They’d known him on sight—he’d walked these streets too often for too long to walk them undetected—and they knew he fought for Camelot. He hadn’t been sure how certain their loyalties were, so he hadn’t corrected them. He hadn’t said that he fought primarily for King Arthur. 

He’d seen how easily the people’s faith in Arthur had slipped away.

He expected some faith had come back with full force when Morgana had taken over—the stark reality would have brought people to their senses—but hadn’t wanted to risk aggravating those who had decidedly turned against their king. Against any and all magic, really.

Leon didn’t pretend to be comfortable with the idea of sorcery, and he didn’t wholly trust that Emrys wouldn’t try to turn things in his favour if given the opportunity, but he thought the sorcerer had earned enough trust for Leon to believe that he’d be trying to help now. 

But no one he had spoken to knew with certainty the goings-on in the castle, and none had heard anything more of Emrys.

Gwen would be disappointed, for Leon knew she was depending more strongly than she admitted aloud on Emrys.

He hoped her faith in the man was not misplaced.

They could use the help right about now.

-|-

It was a few long, disorienting seconds before Arthur’s eyes adjusted.

When they finally did, it was still very dark—but he was able to make out enough outlines of sharp ridges to at least be confident that Morgana hadn’t spirited them away to a cave or some such thing. He hadn’t even known she could do this, this moving like that. Well, to be fair, he’d expected that she could do something like it—she’d slipped away from him too often before to think she couldn’t—but he hadn’t thought she’d be able to bring him with her.

The knowledge was…disquieting.

Arthur wondered if Merlin could do such a thing, if pressed. 

Although, he supposed if Merlin could, it was a skill he’d acquired after he’d spent the night in the cells as Dragoon the Great. Unless he’d stayed simply to make a point. Arthur still wasn’t sure. He hadn’t asked yet. There had always been too many other…questions. Questions that needed answers, fears that needed to be addressed….

Arthur couldn’t see Morgana, but he had no doubt that she was near. Letting his hands be his eyes, though, he began to suspect where he was: one of the few places in the castle where Morgana could ensure that he’d remain locked up. It would be no trouble if he had his keys, of course, but she’d had those off of him long ago.

He was in the vaults.

Specifically—at least, most likely, since he couldn’t exactly see to be certain—behind the locked gates.

Without a torch.

But, unfortunately, _with_ the knowledge that it was unlikely anyone would look for him here, and that even if someone was looking for him—Merlin had to be around somewhere, since he seemed to have bested Morgana for the moment, a fact for which Arthur could be grateful without thinking about it too much—they might not hear him even if he called out. The walls were thick. It was dark. It smelled musty, and he began to wish again that he could have a drink of water.

A breath of fresh air and a drink of water. Was that too much to ask?

Somewhere beside him, Morgana moaned, and Arthur knew that, at the moment, it was.

-|-

Merlin had never before found Gwaine’s questions to be particularly tiresome. It was amusing, usually, the things he came out with. He liked seeing how far Gwaine would get before Arthur would get frustrated and make some remark or another to get the knight to keep quiet. It usually didn’t work, which just made everything more entertaining.

But now he found the endless questions irritating.

He was almost regretting his decision to bring Gwaine along, although he’d thought at the time that it made the most sense. After all, Gwaine could get Arthur away to someplace relatively safe while he distracted Morgana.

“I’m following my instincts,” Merlin snapped with a bite in his tone that he’d never used with Gwaine before—at least not when it was only Gwaine present. “How do you _think_ I know where I’m going?”

Gwaine shrugged good-naturedly, not the least put off by Merlin’s response. “If I knew how sorcerers could seek each other out, I wouldn’t have asked.”

Yes, he would have. Merlin wasn’t a fool. Gwaine would gather information any way he could, and this was one of the ways he seemed to prefer. “It’s not a matter of seeking out Morgana,” Merlin answered honestly enough. Her magic would have scattered when she’d transported herself away; it would take him too long to try to find her that way. It was faster to use common sense. Not to mention easier to explain to Gwaine, whose questions never seemed to stop. “If it were that easy, don’t you think she’d have already found me?”

“So she doesn’t have the same ‘instincts’ that you do?”

Definitely trying to get some information out of him, even now. He supposed it would’ve been too much to ask for Gwaine to fully trust him. No one in Camelot seemed to trust each other without reservation these days, barring the trust between him and Gaius. “If she does, she doesn’t know how to use them.”

“Or she doesn’t know what to look for.”

That was more the truth, though Merlin didn’t want to admit it. “Not necessarily. It’s not something magic requires. It just requires using your brain. Think you’re capable of that?”

Gwaine put on a great show of looking wounded. “You doubt me?”

Merlin snorted. “Certainly starting to.” That wasn’t true, either, because Gwaine was still acting. Merlin had seen him do so often enough to recognize it without second-guessing himself. It was the front Gwaine put up for everyone he didn’t know very well, for the strangers who might make the grave mistake of underestimating him. 

Of course, Merlin knew well enough that Gwaine quite enjoyed the attention he got whenever he employed such tactics.

There was a brief respite, where Merlin was able to enjoy the silence, before Gwaine opened his mouth again. “You’re looking for someplace Morgana could have taken Arthur that Arthur couldn’t get out of.”

“Took you long enough to realize,” Merlin muttered—realizing, not for the first time, that he never really had to _act_ the part of a crotchety old man whenever he did an aging spell. He wondered if he’d be this irritable when he really got older or if it was just the effects of the stiff joints and all the other not-so-pleasant, unavoidable side effects of the spell.

“That’s why you keep looking in all the locked rooms.”

“And you _really_ didn’t notice that earlier?”

“You took me along to watch your back, didn’t you? I’ve been focusing more on the corridors than on how long it takes you to get inside a room. I didn’t even hear you use a spell to unlock the first few.”

Which meant he hadn’t realized they’d all been locked until just now. Well, Merlin supposed he couldn’t blame Gwaine for that. Some of the places he’d looked weren’t always supposed to be locked, anyway, and he was almost surprised that he hadn’t run into any more captives like George.

But then again, Morgana wouldn’t like to give off the impression that she was willing to keep the majority of the people who crossed her alive, even if it was temporarily.

“So wouldn’t it make more sense for us to split up?” Gwaine pressed. “Now that I know what you’re doing?”

“You thought I was randomly checking rooms before?” Merlin shot back.

“I thought you were checking rarely used rooms before,” Gwaine replied simply. “But it’ll go faster if we split up.”

“You don’t have keys.”

“I can pick a lock.”

“Doesn’t mean you can do anything against Morgana if you find them.”

“Yeah, well, she looked pretty beat up by the time you were through with her.”

Merlin stopped and rounded on Gwaine. “Don’t underestimate her,” he said sharply, even though he wasn’t entirely sure Gwaine had been. “She _retreated_. She didn’t _run_. She’s been trapped before, Gwaine. She’ll not be so easily caught again, for she’ll never be so easily fooled. _Never assume you have the better of her_.”

Gwaine held up his hands, trying his best to look open and innocent, trying to placate the person he assumed was a powerful sorcerer who wasn’t necessarily to be trusted. “I wasn’t.”

“You were,” Merlin corrected. “She could be playing with us for all we know, leaving before she was truly spent and waiting for us to walk right into her trap.”

“You’re selling yourself a bit short there, aren’t you?”

Maybe he really was underestimating her. Merlin wouldn’t have thought it from Gwaine, not when he employed the very same tactics himself. “No. It’s Morgana. She has nothing to lose and everything to gain, and she’s astute enough to take every advantage we give her. So don’t give her any more opportunities than she already has!”

“I’m not!” Gwaine objected.

“You _are_. Do you think I’ve never fought her before? Do you think I don’t know what I’m up against? What _we’re_ up against?” Merlin griped. “She won’t be done in with a single spell, not one like that. She’s too strong. Haven’t you learned enough to appreciate what a High Priestess of the Old Religion _is_? It’s not a title just anyone can attain, you know!”

Gwaine looked at him for a long moment but didn’t protest.

Merlin huffed. “You should know the advantages you get when you trick people into underestimating you.” Then, under his breath, “You and me both.”

Gwaine heard him. “People underestimate you? You, the powerful sorcerer Emrys?”

“You have,” Merlin said bluntly. As Gwaine’s mouth opened again, Merlin cut in, “You and almost everyone else. It’s what I expected.”

“It’s what you counted on,” Gwaine observed. “So how’s it work now that everyone knows who you are?”

Merlin plastered a smile on his face, but it wasn’t one of his nicest. “That’s the secret,” he said grimly.

Gwaine frowned. “What is?”

But Merlin turned away and started down the hall again. He didn’t need to answer Gwaine’s question. His silence would be answer enough. 

-|-

Morgana knew she didn’t have much time.

Emrys was here, and Emrys would find them. He’d be looking already. He’d likely started the moment she’d gotten away with Arthur. She was still weak, but she didn’t need to worry about Arthur going anywhere, so she could regain her strength. If he foolishly tried to fight her, then she’d kill him.

He wasn’t the only one who knew about Emrys.

If Gaius would not tell her, then she would hunt down Alator. Unless she could convince Emrys to give himself up. A trade, perhaps. Although she didn’t really want to let Arthur go. Letting him live this long when she had him in her sights was foolish enough. 

But if she got Emrys now, she would have more than enough time to deal with Arthur later.

If she could only get him out of the way….

She’d gone beyond keeping Arthur alive to get information out of him; now, he was useful to her alive because he was the one person Emrys would protect at all costs.

Arthur, Emrys believed, was the Once and Future King. Morgana knew the stories now. But she would be quite happy if Arthur’s time of Now ended. Even if she didn’t have the support of the people behind her right now, she could gain it. If nothing else, she could allow the fool Gwen to temporarily assume the throne, and she could rule _through_ her until she’d had enough time to muster up a proper army. It would not be so hard to break the wench.

She could not hold Camelot now. She knew that. She hadn’t the resources. Camelot had allies—Caerleon being a notable one, which left a bitter taste in Morgana’s mouth. But she hadn’t time to settle petty disputes or take revenge on everyone who had wronged her. To be effective, she needed to be focused, and right now, her focus was on Camelot. On Arthur. On _Emrys_.

She had little doubt that there had been runners to the neighbouring kingdoms. The other monarchs were not so foolish as to not have spies to assess the actions of their neighbours. The forces could be gathering even now—those that would fight for Arthur, in accordance to the treaties he’d drawn up, and those that would fight to take Camelot, and none that would support her.

Fear of her magic and fear of a dragon would not hold them off for long. Sheer numbers could overwhelm her, and Morgana had no doubt that the others knew it. Her taking the throne now…. She’d needed a position of authority, and by taking such a bold stance and imprisoning the king, she’d drawn out Emrys.

Precisely like she’d wanted to.

There would be time enough to regain the throne once she’d taken out Arthur’s principal defence.

The Cailleach’s words still echoed in her head. _“The one they call Emrys will walk in your shadow. He is your destiny, and he is your doom.”_

Emrys lived in the shadows. That was why she’d forced him into the light. She refused to accept the inevitability of her defeat. If she was going to fall, he would fall with her.

A small part of Morgana cautioned her for her confidence. Like she had Aithusa, Emrys must have aid of a dragon to so effectively decimate Agravaine’s army. And even though she had no doubt Aithusa was loyal to her, the dragon had not attacked Emrys. She hadn’t taken Morgana’s cue to fight, and Morgana hadn’t gotten the sense that Aithusa was ready to attack when she’d transported herself away—even after seeing Emrys attacking her.

It made her wonder just how much power Emrys had.

He wasn’t a Dragonlord—he couldn’t be; they no longer existed—but if he’d managed to bond to Aithusa as she had, if he was trying to gain her trust and turn her against Morgana….

Aithusa was young, but she was ordinarily not so easily influenced. Emrys would have to be convincing indeed to overcome the strength of their bond, the one that had kept Aithusa by her side for the two years they’d spent in that hellish pit. Aithusa bore the physical scars of their captivity more clearly than Morgana herself. 

Emrys could not take that away from her. From them. Not so easily. Not after all they’d been through.

“You’re not going to win, Morgana.”

Arthur. She almost wished he hadn’t had the sense not to attack her. Even if she couldn’t kill him without losing her leverage, she could do more damage than she had, and she’d welcome the excuse for it.

Not that she needed one.

“Don’t delude yourself, dear brother,” Morgana snapped. “Emrys is playing right into my hands.”

Arthur snorted. “Which is why you’re in the vaults, hiding from him.”

“Waiting for him,” Morgana corrected. 

“So what happens when he shows up?”

As if she was going to explain all her plans to him. “ _Hleap on bæc_ ,” Morgana bit out, her patience worn thin. The spell wasn’t strong, but her eyes blazed brightly nonetheless, and Arthur crumpled, though the spell did not throw him far. He was no stronger than she, though neither wanted the other to realize that.

If he’d been more confident in his own strength, he probably would have attacked her. He was ordinarily foolish enough to do so. With Arthur, bravery was often coupled by stupidity. 

He would likely have gotten himself killed already if Emrys had not been protecting him.

Morgana shifted her position once again and leaned back to close her eyes. When Emrys came, she would be ready. If she had to run again, she would run, taking Arthur with her, but she wouldn’t run forever. Time did not work in her favour, and she was not keen on losing any of the advantages she had.


	21. Chapter 21

“Shouldn’t Merlin be back by now?” Gwaine asked.

“Merlin’s fine,” Emrys said bluntly.

“You don’t know that,” Gwaine insisted.

“He’s fine,” Emrys repeated. “I set him a simple task. It’s not as if he had the opportunity to run into Morgana.”

“But that’s the problem,” Gwaine pointed out. Emrys glared at him, and Gwaine clarified, “If it’s such a simple task, he should be back by now.”

Emrys grunted. “He wouldn’t know where to find us.”

Gwaine raised his eyebrows. “Just because you don’t see the servants, doesn’t mean they don’t see you. Merlin would be able to track our position easily enough. We’re not exactly stalking through the castle unnoticed.”

Emrys muttered something Gwaine didn’t quite catch. Then, again, “Merlin’s fine. Don’t worry about him.”

“You should worry more about him than you are,” Gwaine said, his respect for Emrys dropping by the second. “Or isn’t he more to you than a source of information?” The idea that Merlin had been used as a spy was rather unsettling, but Gwaine could content himself with the fact that Merlin meant well. He always meant well. He would never intentionally do something against Arthur or against Camelot. If he’d caught Emrys in the act of protecting the king and the kingdom and given his trust over to a sorcerer, then he believed that he was doing what was best for Arthur.

But still, passing information was passing information. Not to mention sneaking off to do whatever tasks Emrys had set for him.

Gwaine wondered if it was still treason if Merlin wasn’t acting against Camelot and then decided it didn’t matter, as he’d defend Merlin’s actions anyway. If Merlin was nothing else, he was trustworthy. So what if he’d kept this a secret? He hadn’t exactly had a choice. He was trying to help his king and the kingdom. It was as simple as that.

It would all be decidedly less simple if Emrys had been just using Merlin and was in fact trying to act against Camelot, but Gwaine wasn’t really getting that impression.

Emrys let out an exasperated sigh. “I appreciate all he does for me. It makes things simpler for me.”

“Then why don’t you care that he might have run into trouble?”

“He hasn’t run into trouble.”

“It’s Merlin,” Gwaine argued, “and you said yourself that sometimes he _does_ run into trouble.”

“He hasn’t this time.” Emrys’s voice was short.

“But you don’t know that,” Gwaine repeated.

Again, Emrys mumbled something under his breath Gwaine couldn’t make out. Then, “We’ll split up, if you’re so concerned. You go look for Merlin. I’ll look for Morgana.”

“And what if Merlin’s hurt and needs help?”

“If that’s the case, I’ll find you,” Emrys said. “But it’s not.”

Gwaine knew better than to irritate the sorcerer more than he already had, but he wasn’t happy that Emrys wouldn’t admit that they had valid reason to be concerned about Merlin. If he had a key to the cells, it wouldn’t take him long to release Gaius. Gwaine knew better than to think that Merlin would have the sense to go _with_ Gaius when he released him, which meant Merlin was still here.

Somewhere.

“I’ll check his quarters first,” Gwaine said. “Then the kitchens, and I’ll talk to the staff if he’s not there. For all we know, someone caught him and is trying to get into Morgana’s good books by turning him in.”

Since Emrys said nothing, Gwaine took it to mean he wasn’t so sure the staff wouldn’t give up Merlin—who was trying to help them all by helping Arthur—to Morgana if they thought it might save their lives, either.

“Fine,” Emrys growled. “Go. No sense wasting any more time.”

Gwaine went, feeling a bit uneasy, for the sorcerer didn’t move. Even without looking, he could feel the old man’s eyes on his back until he was well out of sight.

He just hoped Emrys was right about this and that Merlin _was_ fine, but with Merlin, Gwaine couldn’t be sure, and he didn’t want to take any chances. Certainly not while Morgana was about. And definitely not when Morgana had Arthur and Merlin was liable to do something foolish if he stumbled on the two of them, since he’d probably try to free Arthur without really thinking it through. Then, Morgana would have both of them and it would be that much harder to free them….

When Gwaine arrived, Merlin’s chambers were empty, and he wasn’t familiar enough with Gaius’s supplies to know if anything was missing from the physician’s stores. Sure, there were some obvious gaps on the shelves, but there’d been more than one struggle in this room. Some of the things could have been lost and just never replaced. Or maybe, just maybe, Merlin _had_ been here and taken a few things. Gwaine wished he knew for certain.

Gwaine bit back a curse and headed for the kitchens. He didn’t expect Merlin to be there, but he had to start somewhere. He hadn’t expected Merlin to be in his room, either, or that he’d catch him in the act of raiding Gaius’s supplies. He just wasn’t sure where to look for him otherwise.

So when Gwaine _did_ arrive at the kitchens, he was more than surprised to see Merlin stuffing his mouth full of bread as if he hadn’t eaten in a week.

-|-

There was someone following him.

George wasn’t sure how he knew that with such certainty, to be honest. It was, after all, quite possible that someone else was in the woods—bandits, most likely, with his dismal luck of late, barring the fact that he’d finally managed to pick the lock on the door. But he just had a sense, one he couldn’t quite explain, that told him in no uncertain terms that someone was tailing him.

He thought he’d lost them now, but he’d thought he’d lost them before, and he couldn’t be sure.

He didn’t like this uncertainty.

George picked his way carefully through the forest for some time longer before he heard the slither of metal on metal. He froze, eyes wide and scanning, but all he could see were branches and leaves and—

“George?”

It took him less than a second to put a name to the face that he could suddenly see through the trees. “Sir Elyan,” he said, relief leaking into his voice. “I must speak to Queen Guinevere.”

Elyan sheathed his sword again. “She’s back at the camp. I wouldn’t let her go back with Leon. He’s still out scouting.”

“It would be too dangerous for her,” George agreed solemnly. 

Elyan looked grim. “Come on. I’ll show you the way.”

George followed obediently and quietly at first, but he couldn’t bite back his question forever. “Were you tailing me?”

Elyan shot him a sidelong glance. “Tailing you? No. I’m one of the people trying to protect the perimeter. That was about as far out as I ventured.”

“Ah.” George tried not to let it show how disquieting—to be perfectly honest, _distressing_ —he found this news. “My apologies, sir. I thought someone had been.”

“Are you sure? Lots of noises in the forest. And if you just got away from Morgana, I wouldn’t blame you for jumping at every sound.”

“I was perhaps mistaken,” George allowed, for he didn’t know for certain.

“I’ll check it out once you’re at our site,” Elyan assured him, picking up his pace. “We’re not far out now.”

When they did finally make it, it was a larger group than George had anticipated. But, as he cast a critical eye over the people, there were enough experienced fighters here that they should prove to deter even the most tempted of bandits—and prove more than a match for anyone foolish enough to try to penetrate their defences.

“Gwen will be one of the ones assessing supplies,” Elyan said, pointing to the centre of camp. “She needs something to keep her busy, and we didn’t get through them all before dark fell.”

George nodded absently and walked in the direction Elyan had indicated, vaguely aware that the knight had turned heel and went back the way he’d come. When George reached the queen, he stood at a respectful distance and waited for her to notice him. When she did, she looked relieved. “George! You made it out, then?”

“Yes, my lady,” he said. Then, while he had her attention, “I saw Merlin, my lady. He refused to come with me, but he asked that I take a message to you.”

“Yes?”

“It is in regards to the sorcerer Emrys, my lady. Merlin says that the sorcerer is there and that he is helping him and that no one, yourself included, is to attempt a rescue for you are all safer where you are. Indeed, Merlin stressed that the king would also be safer if you did not attempt to return.”

Gwen was frowning. “We can’t do nothing.”

“It was my impression that Merlin believed Emrys had everything in hand, despite appearances to the contrary.” He paused, then added, “Merlin said one more thing, my lady. He said that Emrys says you are welcome.”

The words brought a small smile to the queen’s face. “Merlin thanked him for me,” she said softly.

“My lady?”

“An old request,” Gwen clarified. “Nothing more. Thank you, George. I appreciate the risks you took to bring me word from inside the castle.”

George wondered idly what she’d say if she found out what he’d attempted and how close he had come to being murdered magically on the spot and then decided against mentioning it. He didn’t want to risk distressing the queen any more than he had by delivering the message.

“I’ll have to speak with Leon when he returns,” Gwen murmured. “It’s a pity Gaius isn’t here. I would appreciate his insight as well.” She bit her lip. “I wonder if I should send word to Queen Annis?”

It was not his place to advise the queen, so he did not try. Instead, he offered to help her with her task—she had many other helpers, but another pair of hands would not be amiss in this case—and she accepted with a grateful smile. 

George hoped fervently that Merlin knew what he was doing and that his message to Guinevere had not been a lie.

-|-

Merlin hadn’t wanted to be himself again so soon, but Gwaine had given him little choice. He knew how stubborn the knight could be. He was fiercely loyal and protective of his friends, and Merlin had to admit Emrys hadn’t appeared as concerned as he could have been. 

The worst part was, once he had satisfied Gwaine, he’d have to slip off again and cast another aging spell before he truly tracked down Arthur and Morgana. And if he didn’t manage to end things then and there, he’d either have to stay as an eighty-some year old man or hope that he could manage to brew another potion in secret, for once he used his last one….

Once he used his last one, he wouldn’t be able to use magic openly again.

Not until he managed to procure another potion, anyway, as he’d tried to reverse the spell without a potion earlier and it had failed as miserably as it had the first time (and every time since) he’d tried it.

“What are you doing here?” Gwaine demanded.

“Sneaking lunch,” Merlin replied once he’d swallowed. He handed Gwaine a piece of bread. Nodding at it, he said, “That’s about what I’ve been surviving on since this time yesterday.” He reached for a few grapes—ones bruised or split or otherwise not deemed acceptable for Morgana’s fare—and tossed them into his mouth. “I’ve been doing a lot of running around. Food hasn’t exactly been a priority, but when I saw a chance, I took it.”

Gwaine accepted his own bread (and snagged a nearby apple) and began eating with vigour. “Got some wine?” he asked.

“Water,” Merlin answered, pushing his cup forward, “but help yourself.”

Gwaine drained it. “Emrys told me you freed Gaius,” he said quietly, his voice almost lost in the commotion of the kitchen. Merlin nodded, and Gwaine continued, “And then you just came straight here?”

“Gaius went off with some supplies,” Merlin answered. “Food was the last thing we gathered, and I stayed here while he went away. If worst came to worst, I thought I might be able to distract Morgana. I don’t think she knows I’m still here yet, so if she saw me, she’d at least try to lock me up if nothing else, and hopefully by that point, Gaius would be long gone.” He paused, then asked, “Where’s Arthur?”

As he’d expected, Gwaine had been waiting for this question. “Locked up with Morgana somewhere, Emrys thinks. He’s still looking for them. I’d be with him if I hadn’t wondered where you’d gone.” He grinned. “Here I was, thinking you might have _really_ gone to the tavern on your own, just to get out of here!”

Merlin snorted. “The thought occurred to me,” he quipped back, “but then I thought you wouldn’t be too impressed if I went without you.” He reached behind him for a pitcher—half full of water now—and refilled Gwaine’s cup. “You should go once you’re through eating. Take some food with you. Gaius doesn’t have much.”

“I’m not leaving, Merlin.”

“It’s not safe here.”

“And you expect me to just run away because of that? You know me better than that.”

Merlin sighed. “Suppose I shouldn’t have expected you to have grown some common sense overnight.”

Gwaine raised an eyebrow. “You can’t talk too loudly. I can at least hold my own in a fight.”

“Hand to hand, maybe, but you don’t stand a chance against Morgana’s magic.”

“Not really,” Gwaine agreed, “but I’d rather try and fail than run away and not try at all.”

“Even if you’re not sure you can win the fight and you know what’ll happen if you lose?”

“Merlin.” Gwaine just looked at him for a long moment. “You know me better than this. Besides, I don’t hear you saying you’ll come with me if I do go.”

Merlin smiled sheepishly, aware he’d been caught out. “I may not be able to do much here,” he acknowledged, “but I can do more here than somewhere else. Besides, I’m just a servant.”

Gwaine frowned. “Merlin, you know you’re more than that.”

Merlin shrugged. “Not really. I’m just a disrespectful, inefficient servant.” _Who desperately needs to regain Arthur’s full trust._ “If Uther had had his way, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now.” That was true in more ways than one. Uther would have been content to let Merlin die rather than have Arthur risk his life trying to save him—servants could be replaced, after all, and crown princes could not—and he would have seen him executed in a heartbeat if he’d learned the truth as Arthur had.

Gwaine scowled. “And Leon wonders what I have against nobility.” Then, louder, “But my point is, Merlin, that you’re bound to stay for the same reason I am: because you’re loyal to Arthur, and because we can _do_ something here, like you said. Maybe we can’t get close enough to Morgana to kill her and ensure we never have to go through this again, but we can make her life hell for coming here in the first place.”

“Only if we’re careful,” Merlin said. “She caught George trying to slip her some poisonous mushrooms. Frankly, I’m surprised he didn’t just douse the entire meal in Gaius’s aconite if he was going that route. It would’ve been easier for him, even if it wouldn’t have changed the outcome because Morgana would be watching for those sorts of tricks. I think the only reason she didn’t kill him on the spot was because she was going to do so in front of Arthur if he didn’t tell her anything about Emrys.”

Gwaine opened his mouth—quite possibly to say something about George, whom Merlin knew had always struck him as a spineless fish as opposed to someone with actual backbone—before stopping and instead glancing around them. Leaning in closer, he asked in a whisper, “And how much does Arthur _know_ about Emrys?”

Merlin grimaced. “More than he’s telling, that’s for sure.”

“Like you?”

“Sometimes secrets are the only way to survive,” Merlin answered softly.

“And you think you’ll be able to get through this without Morgana finding out you know more than you’re telling, too? I don’t want to see you in the same position as Arthur.”

“I hope I can,” Merlin replied. If he didn’t…. No. He had to. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about. “Morgana won’t find out.”

Gwaine raised his eyebrows. “Look, I don’t want her to find out anything either, Merlin, but we’d be fools not to prepare for the worst.”

“She won’t find out everything,” Merlin amended.

“Merlin—”

“Trust me,” Merlin said firmly. 

“But if the worst happens and she does?”

“We’ll all regret it,” Merlin responded simply, “but she won’t best us, even with that knowledge on her side.”

Gwaine let out a low whistle. “You must have as much trust in Emrys as I do in you.”

That was saying quite a bit, given how Gwaine had shown his trust for Merlin since he’d found out about Emrys being a sorcerer in the first place. Merlin wondered if he could retain Gwaine’s trust when the truth came out or if he’d lose it as easily as he had Arthur’s.

He didn’t want to lose it any more than he wanted to lose Gwaine’s friendship.

“I have to,” Merlin said quietly. He still remembered what Kilgharrah had said to him, and he knew the truth of it. He couldn’t expect anyone else to trust in him, to believe in him, if he didn’t trust in and believe in himself. “If I don’t, I’m not sure anyone will.”

-|-

Elyan wasn’t sure what to think, really. He was relieved that Leon had found Gaius and guided him to their makeshift camp and more relieved still that Gaius had been the one tracking George, but he was unnerved because Gaius was free.

It might sound a bit heartless, but he couldn’t be sure of things, and if he couldn’t be sure, it was safest not to trust.

From what he understood, trusting Morgana—even just trusting that she had changed little after a year away from court—wasn’t wise.

To be fair, this wasn’t necessarily a matter of trusting Morgana—it was more an issue of trusting Emrys, as Gaius had confided that it was the sorcerer who had seen to his freedom—but it was still a matter of trusting a sorcerer who had threatened Arthur’s life.

Elyan knew Leon was uneasy about it, too. Percival seemed more accepting—cautious, yes, but still willing to trust with little reserve. Gwen was the most accepting of any of them, but that didn’t surprise Elyan. It was Gwen. His sister had always been like that.

It meant she’d taken the betrayals—Morgana’s most of all—very, very hard.

Elyan didn’t want to see her hurt again.

Certainly not at the hands of this Emrys.

He still wasn’t entirely convinced this wasn’t some ploy of some sort, where the two sorcerers were working together. What better way to gain the king’s trust, after all, than saving him from an enemy? And once Emrys had the trust of the king, he would have more influence over the king.

Elyan trusted Arthur’s judgement. He really did. And he didn’t expect Arthur to be so easily misled, especially after what had happened when he’d followed Agravaine’s advice. But sorcerers could mask themselves, mask their actions, and do a very good job of making something disastrous appear to be perfectly fine—maybe even helpful—on the surface. And Elyan didn’t want to think that Arthur might be grateful enough to overlook some of the things in the past if Emrys saved them all now.

Even if the man wasn’t secretly working with Morgana—which Elyan didn’t wholly expect, since anyone who worked with Morgana would have to be a fool not to expect to be stabbed in the back, and if Emrys had survived this long, he couldn’t be a fool—he could still be following his own agenda. A few notable acts of good will now and the odd display of kindness or show of selflessness might be all well and good, sure, but he could still have some bigger plan that he wasn’t telling anyone about, and they could all be pawns in it. They could be setting things in motion, allowing it all to play out just as Emrys needed it to, and be none the wiser.

He didn’t want to be taken in again.

Leon’s news had been nothing good. Morgana had struck swiftly and forcefully. The people were running scared. Those who crossed her ended up dead. 

And the ridiculous rumours that had been flying around about her years back hadn’t been so ridiculous after all. Contrary to what he’d heard—to what everyone had believed—Arthur had not slain the last dragon. There was one more—Elyan highly doubted that there was more than one, because dragons weren’t exactly inconspicuous—and it served Morgana.

The only good thing about it all was that it seemed fairly clear that Arthur wasn’t working with Morgana in any way, and Leon had said that the people seemed to have acknowledged this, even if he hadn’t pressed anyone for fear of aggravating a delicate situation.

George and Gaius had both brought news that Emrys was acting in Camelot. Gaius seemed more convinced than George that Emrys was actually doing some good. For all that Gaius presented the illusion of distance, Elyan was sure he was closer to all of this than he wanted any of them to know. 

Gwen was in close conversation with Gaius now—Gaius and Leon both, actually—and trying to figure out what she ought to be doing. Emrys didn’t want them in Camelot. Well, not within Morgana’s reach, at least, so not anywhere near the citadel. 

The idea of doing nothing didn’t sit well with him. 

It didn’t seem to sit too well with Gwen, either. She trusted Emrys, but she wasn’t keen on leaving Arthur with Morgana. Elyan knew why: it was Morgana, and it was common knowledge that she wanted Arthur dead. The fact that, as far as they knew, he was still alive was surprising enough. Morgana had little reason to want him alive. The only reason she’d let him keep his life for now would be if she needed something from him. 

Likely as not, the information Arthur had kept from the rest of them.

Elyan was relieved that Arthur had had the sense not to tell Gwen everything. If his sister had been in additional danger because of whatever she knew…. But she wasn’t, so all he had to worry about was the fact that Emrys’s implication was probably right: the only thing she had that Morgana wanted was the throne, which meant there was no reason for Morgana to keep her alive if she showed her face.

They couldn’t go back to the castle. If the rest of them did, they couldn’t take Gwen. Elyan wouldn’t allow it. Not while Morgana still breathed. Not while she still wanted his sister dead.

Even when she had Emrys’s word, Gwen wouldn’t leave Arthur with Morgana if she didn’t have to. Maybe she wouldn’t charge in herself, and maybe not right away, but she’d figure something out. Gwen wanted to send word to their allies, to give them warning of Morgana’s actions—assuming news had not already reached them—and to ask for their protection and aid, should they need it. They needed to do something.

If they did nothing, if they simply waited here, venturing into villages or the lower town for supplies and news, then they would be accomplishing nothing.

And they would be placing all of their trust in a sorcerer.

A sorcerer who, as far as Elyan was concerned, was of questionable intent.

Trusting one sorcerer to best another…. 

He wasn’t sure he could do it.

Emrys—Dragoon—had never particularly struck him as…wholly honest. 

He knew why Gwen wanted to trust him. He understood Arthur’s arguments. He’d even go along with Emrys’s plan if he had to, just as Arthur had asked. But that didn’t mean he’d trust the man as far as he could throw him. Emrys was hiding something from them. Quite possibly the same thing Arthur wasn’t telling them. Elyan couldn’t be sure of that, however.

Maybe knowing would put him in danger. Gwen didn’t need to know if that were the case, but he did if he was going to trust a sorcerer—especially a sorcerer who had threatened the king the last time Elyan had seen him.

Officially, he wouldn’t oppose the wishes of Camelot’s queen. But in private, his sister would know exactly where he stood and why. He didn’t expect her to change what she thought, but she did need to know where he was coming from. They hadn’t always agreed when they were children, either, and Elyan knew from experience that they were both stubborn enough not to change the way they thought—at least not without very good reason, and sometimes not even then.

But chances were good that he wasn’t the only one with misgivings, and Gwen would need to do something to address his concerns. He wasn’t sure she could—he needed something tangible, some proof that he _could_ trust Emrys—and right now, he thought it too dangerous for her to try to get such proof.

Maybe they’d get lucky. Maybe Gwen was right, and Emrys would have this entire mess sorted out before they’d even made contact with their allies. Maybe Emrys would save Arthur, and Elyan would have his proof, and he wouldn’t have to worry about trying to trust someone he didn’t feel he could trust.

But he had never been as much of an optimist as his sister.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has been commenting! Quick turnaround on the update time this time around, and I'm afraid I can't promise that I'll ever get it out this quickly again--but you can thank the blizzard we had yesterday for keeping me in the house all day.

Merlin knew that if he was going to find Morgana, he had to get Gwaine to stay here—or at least not come with him, both of which were easier said than done.

He was thinking now that it would have been wiser to remain in hiding, not appearing as either Merlin or Emrys, for he wasn’t so sure Morgana would simply lock Arthur up in the cells again—especially once she discovered Gaius was no longer there. To be perfectly honest, Merlin wasn’t sure she’d let Arthur out of her sight now. Morgana knew Emrys would do anything for Arthur.

Even if it meant giving himself up.

Merlin didn’t like that plan.

There were other options, of course, but he liked them little better. The truth was, for all that he could move freely right now, Morgana still had the upper hand, and she knew it.

“So how’re we going to get Arthur away from Morgana?” Gwaine asked. They were long through lunch now, and Merlin had convinced Gwaine that they should head to his quarters so he could do what he could to patch him up. Merlin knew he wasn’t as good at healing spells as he’d like to be, for they were a lot more complex than they looked on the surface, and he’d be happier if he could help Gwaine in the usual way, too.

Gwaine had agreed after surprisingly little protest, which meant he was still in a good deal more pain than he let on.

Merlin handed him a salve. “Start on your cuts,” he advised. “Around the edges.” Then, as Gwaine complied, “I don’t know. I wish I did. But I’m still hoping I can go a little longer before Morgana realizes I’m here.”

“It’s more than just you being Arthur’s manservant, isn’t it?”

If he was going to be picking his battles, there was no sense in fighting this one. “Yes. She…she doesn’t know what you do. I mean, she doesn’t—”

“Know you’re helping Emrys?”

Merlin nodded. “But she does know….” He broke off. “I’ve caused her too much trouble for her to just let me go. I think she hates me nearly as much as she does Arthur, and I can’t blame her for that, Gwaine.”

Gwaine smirked. “You’d think you’d tried to kill her.”

Merlin, who hadn’t expected Gwaine to piece it together at all—even jokingly—said nothing.

Gwaine’s eyes widened. “Wait, you mean—?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Merlin said. “Well, no, I did, but only because I _had_ to. It was Morgana or all of Camelot. I didn’t have a choice.”

“That’s what Emrys told you?”

That’s essentially what Kilgharrah had told him. “It was back when Morgana was working with Morgause. I don’t…. I don’t even know if _she_ understood what was happening,” Merlin admitted miserably. “That’s the worst of it. But she knew when I’d poisoned her, and she knew I’d done it deliberately. I was glad, at first, when Morgause saved her. I’d wanted to save her myself.”

“It would’ve been better if she had died,” Gwaine muttered.

That’s what Kilgharrah had always told him. He’d held Morgana’s life in his hands more than once, after all. When he’d decided to save her himself, Kilgharrah had advised him against it. But if he’d listened…. “I know. But that doesn’t make me feel better about trying to kill her.” It didn’t make him feel any better about killing anyone else, either. Even in battle, even when it was necessary, even when it was kill or be killed—or kill or let _Arthur_ be killed—it was still…sickening.

And part of what scared him was that, if it came to it, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill again.

“Don’t let that stop you now. It’s Morgana or Arthur.”

_No, it’s Morgana or Emrys. Morgana or_ me _._ “Arthur will be safe. Emrys can defeat Morgana. He has before.”

“Not permanently.”

“He can do it, Gwaine.”

“We don’t even know if he’s found them yet.”

_He hasn’t._ “Maybe we should split up and help, then.”

“Believe me, I’ve thought of that. But even if we found them, we couldn’t do much against Morgana. The two of us together, maybe, but not one on one.” Gwaine handed him the nearly empty jar of salve. “We need to get the rest of the staff on our side. As long as people are siding with her, even if it’s out of fear, we won’t be able to do anything.”

A valid point, and one Merlin kept stopping to consider. “We can’t offer them any reassurances, though. Openly siding against Morgana is risky, and they know what’s happened to those who have dared to do it. And there are too many people who haven’t any faith in Arthur, either.”

“Then we rally them for Camelot until they come to their senses,” Gwaine said. “And if Emrys does manage to defeat Morgana, then we’ll have proof that Arthur hasn’t taken leave of his senses.” He paused, then added, “Despite all appearances.”

Merlin snorted. “That’s only if he steps up and takes credit for it, you know.”

Gwaine shrugged. “There shouldn’t be anything stopping him now. Arthur’s already made it clear that he’s not planning on carrying out Uther’s sentence and burning him at the stake. And it’ll be good if he comes forward now. There have been too many secrets kept from the people as it is.” Perhaps reading Merlin’s expression, Gwaine pointedly put in, “And, yes, I of all people _do_ know the importance of keeping secrets, but revealing this one will at least let people know _why_ Arthur’s suddenly changed his mind about magic and sorcery and everything else.”

“It’s not very sudden,” Merlin muttered, thinking how painfully slow the process had felt to him.

Gwaine raised an eyebrow. “It’s sudden enough. You knew Uther better than I did, Merlin, and even _I_ know how this looks. Those rumours sprung up for a reason. Arthur’s spent his entire life hearing that sorcerers are evil. It would have to take an awful lot for him to trust one and trust him enough to think that he won’t be stabbed in the back.”

Merlin knew all that, of course. He was much more aware of it than Gwaine realized. And he wished he didn’t have to pretend he wasn’t. “I know, I just….” He shrugged. “Isn’t there good and bad in everybody?”

“Sure there is,” Gwaine agreed readily, “but in some people, the bad outweighs the good. And where sorcerers are concerned, the damage that can be caused is that much greater because they wield more power.”

“I know that,” Merlin said. “But Emrys…. It’s the other way around with him, with the good outweighing the bad, and no one seems to believe that. It’s…frustrating,” he confessed.

“Look, Merlin,” Gwaine said. “You believe him, right? I’m getting the feeling you’ve never truly doubted him. I admire your unshakable faith, I do. You’re halfway to convincing me you’re right by that alone. But you know Emrys better than anyone else around here right now, so you have more reason to trust him. I want to believe you’re right, Merlin, and I’d help Emrys now even if I didn’t, but I just don’t know him well enough to wholly trust him. It doesn’t matter that he’s a sorcerer on that point, not with me. Not really.”

Merlin just looked at him for a moment. “So if you knew him as well as you know me, you’d trust him?”

“Probably,” Gwaine agreed. “Assuming he does prove to be as trustworthy as you. Or at least as trustworthy as anyone else I trust,” he amended, “since I know you pretty well.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Merlin muttered, just quietly enough so Gwaine couldn’t hear him.

-|-

When Arthur woke—with a headache that he was beginning to think wouldn’t ever go away—he knew instinctively that Morgana was no longer with him. He had the horrible feeling that that meant he’d been out long enough for her to recover her strength and that she was hoping to catch Emrys by surprise. 

And he knew Merlin. Right now, he wished he didn’t know Merlin as well as he did, but he knew Merlin well enough to know that that might just work.

He knew how valuable he was to Morgana at the moment, and Merlin knew it, too. He wouldn’t expect that she’d be willing to leave him behind anywhere and risk him being found in the meantime.

Perhaps there was some sort of magical alarm that would sound if he managed to get out? Was that even possible?

Arthur climbed to his feet and carefully felt his way to the entrance of the vaults. His searching fingers met cold iron and curled around the bars. Pulling himself close to the door, he took a deep breath, hoped Morgana was not hidden around the corner, and hollered, “ _Merlin_!”

His cry echoed back to him but otherwise remained unanswered.

He was far enough removed from the main part of the castle to not be overheard. He was trapped in the vaults, confined to the dark, and utterly unable to warn his idiotic manservant that Morgana wasn’t bothering to set him a guard. She knew full well he wouldn’t be able to get out of here by himself, and she knew no amount of thunderous bellowing would be heard. 

And if she left him here, she could distract Merlin—Emrys—from his search. Perhaps imply that he was no longer in the castle and send Merlin looking for him somewhere else entirely. Or she could try to fight him.

Their last fight, brief though it had been, had been the first time Arthur could really associate Merlin with any amount of power. Knowing what he’d done—had probably done—was one thing. Seeing it, and knowing that it was _Merlin_ casting the spells…. That was another thing entirely.

Yet what lay coiled in his stomach was not fear but shame.

Merlin was powerful, and he did what he did for Arthur. Arthur could deny none of that. He’d become who he was today in part because of Arthur himself. He kept secrets from his friends and lied through his teeth. He killed people as effortlessly as Morgana, and he protected Camelot from those who would wrong her.

Merlin was trying so desperately to be good, he couldn’t even see….

Arthur groaned. “We really need to talk, Merlin,” he muttered. Merlin had wanted to talk so many times, and Arthur had done his best to turn him away or at least keep the conversations short, but this time…. Arthur didn’t want to jump to any more wrong conclusions. 

He was fairly certain Merlin wouldn’t want to have this particular conversation, but they would have to have it out anyway. 

Merlin was right. He didn’t understand, and he needed to. Desperately.

And if they managed to have that conversation before Morgana...before things with Morgana became worse, then perhaps Arthur would be able to understand whatever Merlin’s chosen course of action was.

He honestly had no idea at this point if Merlin would be ready to kill Morgana once and for all or if he was still harbouring some small hope, as Arthur himself had for so long, that Morgana had not been completely consumed by the darkness.

She was, however. Arthur no longer had any doubts about that. 

Arthur knew he wouldn’t be able to get out of the vaults on his own, but he had little choice but to try anyway. He couldn’t just sit here. There was too much at stake. Camelot, which would be destroyed under Morgana’s reign. His throne, even if his people no longer thought him fit to be on it. The life of his idiotically loyal, magic-wielding manservant, never mind his own. 

At least Guinevere had gotten away.

Arthur wasn’t particularly good at picking locks, and he suspected the effort would be pointless anyway—he was quite sure that Morgana would have sealed the lock with magic and that no ordinary means would spring it again—but he had to try.

He couldn’t do anything else.

-|-

To be honest, Gwaine wasn’t entirely sure why Merlin kept suggesting they split up. First it was to look for Arthur and Morgana; then, to ensure that no one else was locked up awaiting execution as George surely had been; finally, to attempt to persuade the people to risk defying Morgana.

What he did know was that he was having none of it. 

Splitting up with Emrys had been one thing; Gwaine was fairly sure he could handle himself—although Emrys had brought up a good point regarding Morgana’s magic, which is why he hadn’t pursued that particular venture—but he was less confident that Merlin could handle trouble on his own. Merlin could avoid trouble, sometimes, but if it came down to a fight….

Gwaine wasn’t as confident as he’d like that Merlin could hold his own in a fight for very long.

Even now, when he himself wasn’t exactly in anything resembling top shape, he could fight better than Merlin. Heck, he probably could have fought better than Merlin when he’d been in worse shape than this—before Emrys had done any sort of magic on him and before Merlin had given him a handful of vile remedies to down and covered him in salves, that is. He had fought successfully like that before, the last time he’d been captured by Morgana. But if Merlin had been put in that same position, with or without Morgana’s idea of a weapon and against that many people?

Gwaine was pretty certain Merlin wouldn’t have won much bread.

It wasn’t that Merlin couldn’t fight—he had to have picked up enough to be able to fight a bit—but he certainly wouldn’t last very long. Muscles used for hauling things around and scrubbing floors and everything else were not the same muscles used for fighting—at least not all of them, and at least not in the same ways, and certainly not when he hadn’t any muscle memory to allow him to just act and not waste time trying to think it through. And considering when Merlin did participate in their training, he was being battered to the ground….

Suffice to say, Gwaine wasn’t about to let Merlin go off on his own.

Besides, even though Merlin had found him a sword—one of Arthur’s old ones from the looks of it—which Gwaine supposed he’d hidden somewhere for himself in case he’d needed it to try to fend off Morgana, he had nothing for himself. And whenever Gwaine pointed that out, Merlin never seemed to give a straight answer. Because no matter what Merlin said, this _was_ different from usual. This was Morgana, and although Gwaine was certainly going to try his best, he might not be able to protect Merlin from Morgana if it came down to it. But Merlin wasn’t listening to reason, so Gwaine had decided to pursue a different argument.

Merlin could be as stubborn as Arthur. So, Gwaine wouldn’t push the point about him having nothing to use against Morgana now. Better to turn that little fact against Merlin and use that very reason as part of his argument against splitting up.

“Think Emrys found them yet?’ Gwaine asked. They were heading back to the kitchens to try to recruit the staff—there was a tiny part of Gwaine worried that, were Merlin to make such suggestions on his own, he’d end up quickly stuffed somewhere where he couldn’t be heard spreading such ideas for fear he’d get them all killed—but right now, the corridor they were walking down was empty.

“I don’t think so,” Merlin answered. “We’d have heard something, I think. Unless Morgana’s left the castle, but I doubt she’d want to do that if she intends to come back. It would be harder to do that if Emrys is here.”

“So you think Emrys could prevent Morgana from coming in the first place?”

Merlin hesitated. “No,” he finally answered, “but I think…I think his presence might dissuade her from trying when she knows he’s here and keeping an eye on things himself.”

“Instead of just through you, you mean.” Merlin just shrugged, but Gwaine hadn’t truly expected a more affirmative response. “And that doesn’t make you feel at all like a sacrificial lamb? Being the bait, essentially, so if you’re caught, you’re the one sticking out your neck and not Emrys?”

“It’s not like that,” Merlin said softly. “Emrys isn’t using me as a shield. I want to do what I am, Gwaine. I want to help. This is how I can.”

Rather than fight with fists or a sword…. Well, Merlin was better at sneaking around than Gwaine had thought when he’d first gotten to know him. Merlin’s clumsiness didn’t seem to betray him when he was being very, very careful. And he had to admit, for all that the pervasiveness of servants and how much they learned in their positions was something noblemen were all aware of, it was something people seemed to forget when it came to Merlin.

He was quite good at making sure he was discounted, really.

Gwaine wondered if that was how he had managed this without getting caught during Uther’s reign, since he’d kept a tighter hold on the information within Camelot than Arthur had been doing of late. Then again, Arthur had been rather distracted as of late, so Gwaine supposed the comparison wasn’t entirely fair, but still. Pieces of information getting out to those who shouldn’t know it and being elaborated on and turned into wild rumours was partly what had gotten them into this current mess.

But at least Merlin hadn’t been responsible for that, and he was obviously careful enough not to say anything to anyone besides Emrys. Well, and Gaius, but chances were good that Gaius knew half the things Merlin did already. 

“So it’s your choice?”

Merlin nodded.

“Even though you’re risking your life?”

Merlin flashed him a quick smile. “It’s not much different from when I ride out by Arthur’s side. Come to that, it’s not much different from when you or any of the other knights go out. There’s always a risk, Gwaine. But it’s worth taking.”

“For Camelot?” It wasn’t simply for Camelot; Gwaine knew that. Even for him and the rest of the knights, it wasn’t just for Camelot. It was for her rightful leader. But he wanted to be certain he wasn’t simply assuming Merlin thought the same way.

“For Arthur, and through Arthur, for Camelot.” Merlin fell silent for a few seconds. “Arthur’s changed a lot since I first met him, you know. I never would have thought he could amount to what he is today.”

“Any of that your doing?”

Merlin smirked. “Maybe a bit,” he said. “I hate to think what Arthur would be like if I wasn’t around to knock him down a few pegs when he needs it.”

“Knock him down or build him up,” Gwaine said. “Don’t think I’ve never overheard you two talking when times get tough. Arthur relies on the faith you’ve got in him, Merlin. Sometimes I wonder if it’s stronger than the faith he has in himself.”

Merlin shrugged. “He’s earned it,” he said simply.

Gwaine had no doubt about that. Arthur had earned the trust of all of them many times over. They wouldn’t fight for him if he hadn’t. At least, they wouldn’t fight so unquestioningly for him if he hadn’t, nor so well.

“And how much do you think it’s going to take to remind everyone else of that?”

Merlin sighed. “I don’t know,” he admitted honestly. “The two of us, we know the dangers. We’ve come to terms with them. Most of the people here who don’t travel any farther than the lower town…. They haven’t.”

No one would like to think that this might be their last day to live. No ordinary fellow around here truly wanted to die doing something he believed in. Merlin was right; most of the servants and other staff wouldn’t feel that same sense of purpose that any of them did. None of them were as close to Arthur. None of them had seen, up close, the risks their king would take for them.

It was part of the reason they had been swayed to doubt so easily when the rumours had begun to spread.

“That’s the impression you’ve been getting?”

“That’s how they feel,” Merlin agreed. “This isn’t the first time I’ll be making inquiries. I haven’t tried since I heard the news about George, but expect it’s spread by now, so it’ll be that much harder to get anyone to listen to us.”

“George did get away, though.”

“Yes, but that was luck on his part, and Morgana’s intent was clear enough.”

Gwaine snorted. “She wanted it to be. I’ve lost count of how many people she’s murdered since yesterday.”

“Thirty-one,” Merlin said shortly.

Gwaine raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been keeping track?”

“That’s thirty-one people who shouldn’t have died, Gwaine. Someone needs to remember them.” Merlin paused, then added, “Besides, you were locked up. I wasn’t.”

There was more to it than Merlin was saying, Gwaine was sure, but he couldn’t fathom what it might be. Merlin almost sounded as if he felt responsible for the deaths, which was ridiculous. Even if he’d had the misfortune to witness one or two of them—besides the guard who had choked to death in front of all of them—there wouldn’t have been anything he could have done. He couldn’t combat magic any more readily than Gwaine could.

Perhaps he thought Emrys should have been able to stop Morgana, but by now Gwaine was willing to give the sorcerer the benefit of the doubt. If he used Merlin as his eyes and ears, he wasn’t keeping a constant watch on Camelot. Morgana had moved quickly. That she’d caught them all by surprise was certainly feasible.

“You can’t do any more than you already are, Merlin,” Gwaine reminded him, hoping Merlin would brighten a bit at the reassurance. He’d been awfully grim lately. They all had been, of course, but Merlin…. His grin could brighten the room, and the rest of them always looked for it, even in harsh times like this. “Especially if you don’t want Morgana to—” His eyes flicked forward again, and he stopped in his tracks, the rest of his words dying on the tip of his tongue.

“Especially if you don’t want Morgana to find you here?” Morgana asked mockingly. A moment later, he and Merlin were on opposite sides of the corridor, split apart by Morgana’s magic. “I should have known you hadn’t run with the rest of them,” she said to Merlin. “You always seem to be a thorn in my side.”

Merlin said nothing, but Morgana was still focused on him, so Gwaine tried to reach for his sword while he still could. He was pinned against a pillar, Merlin against the wall, so he hoped he could draw without snagging Morgana’s attention. Morgana must have caught the movement, however, for she whirled around and her eyes flashed as she barked a string of words incomprehensible to Gwaine. His sword gained a life of its own and hovered with its point at his throat.

“And you,” Morgana said derisively. “I’ve really no need to keep you alive. I should run you through right now.”

“Where’s Arthur?” Merlin asked, and Gwaine realized that he was trying to distract Morgana. It was rather foolish—if Morgana did turn her wrath on Merlin, he could do nothing to waylay it—but Gwaine was still grateful. 

His sword, however, didn’t fall, and its aim was unwavering.

Morgana glanced at Merlin. “Somewhere you certainly won’t find him,” she said.

“Emrys will find him,” Merlin said softly.

The words were enough to anger Morgana, and Gwaine’s sword focused its attention on Merlin. Gwaine wondered if he could get at his recently replaced dagger without drawing further attention before thinking better of it; with his luck, he’d just end up with that at his throat, too. Morgana’s magic had lessened, though—it was no longer holding him in place—and he slowly pushed his back against the pillar to rise to his feet. 

Morgana, who had been taunting Merlin, paused just long enough to throw out a hand in his direction and shout out a word. Gwaine had expected to be tossed again—it seemed to be Morgana’s specialty—but instead found himself glued to the spot. 

He had a feeling that this was very not good.

Merlin had taken advantage of the distraction and scrambled to his feet—still carefully avoiding the sword—and eyed Morgana as a mouse might eye a cat.

Morgana’s spell continued, and her hand closed into a fist. The eerie gold still lit her eyes, and Gwaine heard the first crack before it died away.

Merlin made a break for it, no doubt hoping to catch Morgana’s attention, and it must have worked because Gwaine could suddenly move his feet again. He jolted to one side, narrowly avoiding his own sword—which Morgana was _still_ managing to control—and landed in a crouch by the other wall. 

He’d heard of Morgana’s skill with a sword and seen it on occasion himself, but this…. Her magic did not enhance her skill, exactly, but it certainly did a good job of making the weaknesses much harder to spot and exploit, as it eliminated some of them altogether. She did not tire, nor need to worry about guarding herself. Meanwhile, he would dodge and roll; at one point, he was quick enough to grab a torch to attempt to parry some of the blows, but it wasn’t a fair fight, and he knew she was playing with him.

He’d been aware enough of Morgana’s movements during the fight—not just the movements of his sword—to know that Merlin hadn’t gotten away, as Morgana had turned her back on him on more than one occasion to deal with Merlin.

Still, it was only once he’d thrown the remains of the torch away and stood there trying to catch his breath that he had time to wonder why Morgana was granting him a brief reprieve already. They hadn’t been at it that long. It was the fast pace and his weak body that was betraying him now.

“Gwaine!”

Gwaine turned at the shout, his eyes finding Merlin just as he was blasted off his feet. He landed hard a few feet away, coughing when he breathed in the stone dust that now filled the air. A chunk of masonry—easily large enough to have killed him, had he been hit—rested where he’d stood seconds before.

He’d been too preoccupied with the fight to remember the earlier ominous sounds of cracking.

He would never have been able to move in time to avoid the portion of the buttress that had fallen, even with Merlin’s warning.

Merlin himself must have realized that a split second after calling out.

And then he must have acted without thinking, because there wouldn’t have been time for anything else. But for all that it had happened quickly, for all that it had been over in an instant, Gwaine knew what he had seen.

Merlin’s eyes had burned gold.


	23. Chapter 23

Before Morgana had a chance to turn back to him, Merlin scrambled to his feet and ran.

He never looked back, although he expected that Morgana had seen him taking off. He cast a quiet spell to shield himself—her spells should go wide if he’d gotten it right, though he was uncomfortably aware of the fact that he hadn’t gotten it right yet—and bent as low as he could without compromising his speed. He was counting on one stroke of luck that looked to have favoured him: it wasn’t far to the room where he had stored Emrys’s robe and staff before going to the kitchens to meet Gwaine and establish his alibi.

Leaving Gwaine behind wasn’t something he was proud of at the moment, but he rather hoped Morgana would come after him so Gwaine could get away as well. He expected it, if she thought he was going to fetch Emrys—which, in a way, he was.

At the very least, she might decide to keep Gwaine alive in the hope that he might know more than she’d first thought. Or that he’d do just about anything for his friend. It was just as well she liked playing with her food or she’d have tried to kill them all already. It wasn’t as if she _needed_ them among her subjects, should she succeed in keeping Camelot.

Which she wouldn’t, if he had anything to say about it.

He didn’t want to think on what she’d now think of him. It would be little good, whatever her conclusion, but if she realized the truth….

He hadn’t wanted to give up his last secret this way, although he’d rather give it up now and save Gwaine in the process than have counted on the quickness of Gwaine’s own feet and found it not to be quite quick enough.

He should have not said anything at all, but he’d thought Gwaine would have time. He’d thought, in that time, Gwaine would be able to move, and Morgana would be distracted enough to allow it—and distracted enough to allow him to get away, too, the moment her focus was not completely on either of them but sharply torn between them.

By the time he’d realized Morgana had tired Gwaine to the point that he needed a split second too long to realize the danger he was in, that she’d guided the fight into a corner in which she had effectively trapped him until it was too late….

He’d just acted. He hadn’t needed time to think about it. Gwaine was his friend. He wanted to keep it that way.

He wasn’t sure how Morgana had enchanted Gwaine’s sword in the first place—he was still no more sure of that than he had been when she’d first set a dagger on him the time she’d captured Gaius—but he suspected it was a skill she’d learned from Morgause. He’d thought it would take more out of her than it had, however, as she’d been free enough to turn her game of cat and mouse on him. He supposed he owed his life to her fondness of games, to her desire for her victims to suffer, for it was all too possible that any number of them would be dead if she had killed them as quickly as she had those who had had the misfortune to cross her path when she’d taken the castle yesterday.

The bloodshed had to stop. He had enough deaths on his conscience as it was, and all too many of them were those he had killed himself.

It had been necessary, but that didn’t mean he liked it.

Merlin darted around the last corner and slipped through the third door on his left. He’d locked it, of course, so no one else would find what he’d hidden, but it wasn’t hard for him to unlock it—or to lock it again behind him, though that really wouldn’t do him much good if Morgana came looking for him, as he half expected her to.

He’d never expected her to leave Arthur, to be honest. He hadn’t thought her willing to risk Emrys discovering him in her absence. Of course, he also hadn’t thought she’d recover as quickly as she had.

He was a tad out of practice, unfortunately, and Morgana in all likelihood was not.

Merlin was quick to change, though he was less than thankful for the ache which immediately settled in his joints. He was rather tempted to use the Sidhe staff while walking but knew better than to openly draw attention to himself now. Now was one of the times that he needed to let Morgana glimpse him skulking around or, better yet, to catch her by surprise entirely. Otherwise, he risked her drawing the right conclusions—assuming, of course, she hadn’t already.

He still wasn’t sure what to do on the point of Gwaine. He wasn’t sure how much Gwaine had seen. To be honest, he wasn’t sure how much Morgana had seen. But if either of them (or both) believed that any spell-casting had been on Emrys’s part, well, Merlin wasn’t going to correct them quite yet.

Merlin knew he had strength enough to fight Morgana and strength enough to win, even if he had done what he’d warned Gwaine against and underestimated her. 

But what he’d told her was true: he didn’t want to fight her. 

Not even now.

But he knew he had to. She wasn’t giving him any choice.

-|-

Merlin had magic.

Merlin.

_Magic_.

Gwaine was torn between berating himself (he should have noticed it sooner, for in retrospect it seemed like something he ought to have guessed), feeling sorry for himself (Merlin hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him), feeling sorry for _Merlin_ (that certainly couldn’t be an easy secret to keep), feeling impressed (he’d been in Camelot for a very long time, after all), and being just plain stunned (because it was Merlin, of all people).

Fortunately for him, his sense of self-preservation overrode everything else. He was on his feet and moving in seconds. A few years ago, he might have used the opportunity to get to cover. He knew well the value of living to fight another day, after all. Now, he probably still should run, but instead, he grabbed his fallen sword—freed at last from Morgana’s magic—and lunged for her, intending to drive right through her heart and end things then and there.

He would have been better off if he’d chosen to run.

He didn’t know whether Morgana had anticipated his attack or if she’d caught a flash of movement in her peripheral vision, but she turned and he barely grazed her side. She hissed in pain and clamped a hand to the wound but it didn’t seem to eclipse her concentration in the slightest. He was thrown back without a word from her, and from the murderous look in her eye, he knew she was going to kill him.

As she’d said, he wasn’t useful to her.

Where Morgana was concerned, that was a death sentence.

But at least he was being useful to Merlin. He was helping his friend, one last time, by distracting Morgana. He hoped it would be enough.

He’d known the consequences before he’d even acted. But damn the consequences. He’d still done something. He might not have been able to stop it, but he’d bought Merlin time and given him a chance to end it all. Merlin and Emrys, Camelot’s secret sorcerers. Her secret protectors.

Morgana loomed over him, and Gwaine smiled. He had time for one last taunt. “You’re never going to win, Morgana.”

Morgana didn’t bother with words. She didn’t need them. Her eyes flared gold, and as pain raced through his body, Gwaine closed his own.

-|-

Morgana felt her body twist, and she collided with stone before she caught sight of Emrys.

He was ready to fight her now, it seemed—for all that he had claimed that he didn’t want to. 

Her lip curled, and Morgana got to her feet. She was careful not to favour her left side too much lest the apparent weakness be exploited. She wouldn’t let it slow her down now, however, and it would be a simple enough matter to cast a few healing spells once she was through with this.

She was quite good at them now, having spent the last two years nearly perfecting them out of necessity.

Emrys stood at the far end of the corridor. The grim look on his face told her he was through with games and none too pleased to see the state of his little friend. He did not attack again, though she wasn’t so foolish as to think he wouldn’t. But he had done more than she suspected he knew. She hadn’t been quite through with the knight; her silent spell was not quite complete, though it was certainly complete enough for its purpose. For all that a quick death would have been easy—it would have been a simple enough thing to snap his neck—she’d wanted him to suffer for all the suffering he’d caused her.

But if she could keep Emrys distracted for long enough, the spell would do its work and drain the life from the knight even if she hadn’t finished putting all the parameters in place. She’d already ensured he wouldn’t be thrashing about, no matter how much pain he was in, and if she could just trick Emrys into believing him unconscious….

He was clever, however. She would be nearly better off pretending he was already dead, as he would be soon enough. If she had been confident he wouldn’t catch her in that lie, she would go have chosen that path. As it was, however, she would still have to be careful.

“ _Hleap on bæc_ ,” she called, satisfied to see Emrys go flying in turn. Then, while he was still down, “ _Ástríce_!”

Before he’d even gotten to his feet, Emrys sent a powerful blast of fire her way. She conjured a shield to block it—she’d no other choice—and nearly didn’t have time to counteract his next attack—more fire, followed all too swiftly by the remains of Gwaine’s torch (now alight) moving to batter her. She managed it to dodge and douse it all, however, despite the magnified power of the spells channelled through the staff, and was quick enough to bite out a spell of her own. “ _Onslæp nu_.” Then, a variation, “ _Swefe nu_.” The last one she knew was nonverbal, and she cast it as well. They were of varying strengths, but each was often effective enough for its purpose.

Combined, she doubted even the great Emrys would be able to withstand it.

Particularly when he wasn’t expecting it.

The floor beneath her shook slightly, no doubt the fading remains of a half-finished spell; it was far from the violence she had expected and not even enough to throw her off her balance. There was no visible sign that Emrys had shielded himself from the attack, that the fact that he was still now was mere trick. She stood, watching and waiting and ready to act if she noticed the slightest movement, but Emrys remained slumped against stone and the crystal atop his staff remained dim.

She’d won.

She hadn’t truly thought she’d best him so easily.

Arthur was safely locked away. Emrys was caught in her enchanted sleep. Gwaine…. She doubted the knight would last long. Soon, all she would need to do would be to catch Arthur’s infuriating manservant.

She was not pleased to find out that Merlin was still here, of course. She had thought she had made it clear that she be told everything. But as she hadn’t been clear enough, she’d make sure—very soon—that such things would no longer be overlooked. If such oversights continued, examples would be made until they stopped.

Still, this particular oversight had led to a very interesting discovery. Merlin had gotten away from her, Gwaine distracting her before she’d chance to give chase, and within moments, Emrys had turned up. She did not believe that to be a coincidence.

Certainly not after Merlin’s little display earlier.

It made her furious.

Merlin had magic. Merlin had magic, and he remained in Camelot, despite the laws that had driven her away. More than that, he was connected to Emrys. From what she had seen, she had no doubt that Merlin helped him.

It explained why Merlin was such a thorn in her side and how he always seemed to know more than he should. Emrys told him. In return, Merlin had become the sorcerer’s eyes and ears within Camelot, scouting out the places he could not readily appear. It was a much more effective method than scrying, which would not only be draining on one’s magic—even when one’s magic was as great as Emrys’s—but also only show snatches of the whole story, too few pieces to truly understand the circumstances of each situation as it unfolded.

It also all meant, of course, that she had been abandoned by both Emrys and Merlin. Merlin had been suspicious of her from the start, but first Morgause—and then she—had dismissed him as a mere servant whose voice would not be heard. When he had proven himself to be a problem, they had sought to take care of it.

That they had never succeeded should have told them that the matter deserved a closer look.

Merlin would never have been able to survive the serkets, let alone anything else, without help—even if he did have magic of his own.

But even before Morgause had shown her the truth, even before she had first fled Camelot, Merlin must have known of her. She had little doubt that Emrys had, and he would have no reason not to reveal the truth to Merlin—particularly not when he would have asked Merlin to keep a close eye on her. Despite what must have been his assigned task, however, Merlin had done nothing to help or support her when she’d first discovered her magic. For all that she’d needed him—needed anyone—to help her through the difficulties she’d faced when first discovering her magic, for all that their shared bond would have made them as close as kin, for all that he would have been told the truth by Emrys—most likely the first night she’d set her bed curtains aflame—he had abandoned her.

It didn’t matter that Merlin possessed only a paltry amount of magic. She, of course, would have sensed it if he had had any _real_ power. His lack of it was likely the only reason he had survived this long without discovery. 

That, and Emrys’s guidance. She didn’t understand why Emrys would help him and ignore her when she’d needed help.

But Camelot was wrought with favouritism, and Emrys was no different. 

Emrys was her destiny. He was her doom. And he had condemned her to the path she now walked.

That she had the upper hand now simply meant even Emrys, even the sorcerer who must have known of her power from the very beginning, had made the fatal mistake of underestimating her.

Merlin was nothing without Emrys behind him. He, too, would make that mistake. And then she’d have them all.

She wasn’t in a position to hold Camelot, but now that she had its protector, that didn’t worry her. 

Morgana moved to stand over Emrys. She had waited so long for this moment that she could hardly believe it had arrived. She’d begun to believe it wouldn’t, despite her best efforts. But her hated, hunted enemy lay at her feet.

Vulnerable.

And, now that she had a chance to study him…. He looked familiar, a familiarity that looked to be more than one born of their previous brief encounters. She could see something of Merlin in him—certainly enough to explain why Merlin had been favoured.

It made sense to think of it. Merlin had come to Camelot young and foolish, but he had never given her—or anyone else, she’d guess—reason to suspect that he had magic, which meant that he had known of it before coming. She’d met Merlin’s mother. Hunith cared for her boy. She wouldn’t have sent him to Camelot—knowing the risk—without some assurance that Merlin would be safe.

No, Hunith wouldn’t have dared to send her only son to a kingdom which had banned magic without being confident that someone would be looking out for him.

Truthfully, Morgana could recall nothing of Merlin’s father. She assumed him dead, but the point itself was unimportant. However the relation, it was clearly there: Merlin had inherited his blue eyes—and, she’d no doubt, his magic—from Emrys. Be it a paternal or—which she thought more likely, given Hunith’s trust—maternal relation, it was undeniable now that she had time to think on it. Emrys was, in all likelihood, Merlin’s grandfather. 

She felt like a fool for not making the connection earlier. She’d had Merlin in her grasp. If she’d known, if she’d had any inkling, she’d have set him the task of killing _Emrys_ instead of merely killing _Arthur_. But it didn’t matter now. She’d find him and deal with him in turn. In the meantime, she’d bind Emrys’s magic as he once had hers, and enjoy the look on his face when she finally rid herself of Arthur in front of him.

And then she’d deal with the infamous sorcerer himself, once and for all.

-|-

He couldn’t get out.

Arthur had tried everything—and that _meant_ everything—but the vaults remained stubbornly sealed. Morgana’s choice of prison had been a wise one, it seemed. No one came down here without reason, and since he didn’t possess magic himself….

He had to wait for Merlin.

The trouble was, he’d reached that conclusion some time ago now, and Merlin had yet to appear.

Arthur had reached the point where he needed to remind himself that he shouldn’t be annoyed because his manservant was late. Again. This time, Merlin did, in all likelihood, have a reasonable excuse. Morgana’s absence itself suggested more than a few ‘reasonable excuses’ he’d allow Merlin to claim.

And Arthur was about ready to admit that magic could be useful in small ways—to outright apologize for his earlier ignorance and refusal to believe, even—for all that magic was the reason he was here in the first place.

He just wanted to get out of here, even if that means was by magic—regardless of what his father would say, were he here to witness this.

And Arthur was rather glad he wasn’t just now, for all that he still missed Uther dreadfully. Perhaps—and Arthur would admit this now, too—he _had_ been wrong about magic and all it wrought, or more accurately wrong to consider all magic the same, and Arthur had known that on some level when he’d begun to implement changes to the laws and announced his intentions to do more, but….

Well, he could hardly bristle at Merlin’s apparent brutal slaughtering—and Arthur dearly hoped he was missing some of that story still—when he, too, had killed ruthlessly. Worse still, he now knew that some of those he’d slain had just been innocents and that their deaths had been because of his shortcomings, his misguided beliefs.

Arthur knew well his own flaws—Merlin certainly never hesitated to point them out, though he’d be well aware without those reminders—and he was becoming increasingly aware of his father’s. They were both just men. And Merlin was no different, even if he did have magic.

“Where are you, Merlin?” Arthur muttered, confident that Morgana would not be paying him any mind even if she did have a means of spying on him. She’d left him here alone because she’d known he’d still be here whenever she returned. 

He was not looking forward to that time.

Especially since, at the rate he was going, she was right: he _would_ still be here.

Arthur rattled the bars that were stopping him from leaving even though he knew it was useless. He was frustrated. Nothing he’d tried had enabled him to sneak out. True, he had never had much cause to pick a lock in his life, but it was a skill he and Morgana had both learned for the purpose of sneaking about when they were younger.

Well, she’d taught herself how to do it first. Once he’d realized that, he had spent the next few months trying to do the same, with modest success. Typically, however, he had had no use for it, and when he had—whenever he’d been locked up, like now—he was never able to free himself anyway.

Usually that was due to a lack of tools with which to use in trying to escape in the first place, but he suspected that, this time, it was due to magic.

Which meant, since he (and Morgana) knew that this was the only way out, the only way he was escaping here was with magic.

Which meant he needed Merlin.

He didn’t know anyone else here with magic who would be willing to help him.

Well, Gaius, he supposed, since if he’d practiced it once, he should be able to do it again without too much trouble, but Gaius…. If he recalled correctly, Gaius had not used magic the last time he’d been locked up, either. Arthur somehow doubted that was due to vigilant guards or the risk of being caught, as it was unlikely that a moment when there was a lapse in the former would not arise and equally unlikely that the latter would be risk enough to stay put. It was possible that Gaius didn’t remember the spell or that he had difficulty casting it, but Arthur rather suspected he was simply doing his best to not use magic in accordance to Camelot’s laws.

More importantly, it also served the purpose of not drawing attention to the fact that Gaius still knew how to practice magic, even if he abstained from it, as that would merely be one more connection someone might draw between Merlin and magic.

And even vague connections could be dangerous.

Arthur slid back down to the stone floor, keeping the metal gate at his back. He had to accept the very real, very unpleasant possibility that Merlin wasn’t coming for him this time. Merlin very likely had no idea where he was even being held, and with Morgana out there….

He didn’t want to think about what Morgana could do to Merlin, but he was having a rather difficult time keeping it off his mind. 

Merlin wanted to keep his secret from her. Arthur understood that well. He wanted Merlin’s secret kept from Morgana, too—all of it. If Morgana discovered that Merlin was still here, well, that wasn’t the worst that could happen. But if she discovered that he had magic? That he was Emrys?

Merlin would have to kill her in cold blood, because if he hesitated for a moment, she’d kill him instead.

Arthur knew the difference between killing someone in battle and just _killing_ someone. If Merlin wasn’t already aware of it, he might very well have to find out. Arthur wished he didn’t, but their options were few at this point.

Now was not the time for mercy.

Nor, under certain circumstances, was it the time for keeping secrets. Because if Morgana _did_ get her hands on Merlin and he _didn’t_ use magic to escape, Arthur would have all the assurance he needed that Merlin was a complete idiot. Merlin wouldn’t be able to move freely any more once Morgana discovered he had magic, but at least he’d be alive.

Not that Arthur seriously thought Merlin would just let Morgana finish him off instead of exposing his own magic, but he’d had more than enough time to remember that the moment one came to rely upon magic, it could be taken away.

Morgana had meant to kill him with hers, after all, the last time she’d taken Camelot. It had—inexplicably at the time—failed her. Arthur had eventually made the connection to Emrys, and he now made the connection to Merlin, but the point still stood that if Merlin could find a way to take away Morgana’s magic—temporary a measure though it may have been—then Morgana could find a way to take away Merlin’s magic.

Arthur wasn’t so sure Merlin would last very long without his magic. Not when Morgana had him, anyway, and not in a fight if it came to that. 

The admission of that particular truth, of course, always came with a by-now-familiar feeling of guilt, for Arthur was wondering, had he handled things much better and distinctly differently, if he could have somehow prevented all of this—or any of it, for that matter. 

There was no real sense in wondering. He couldn’t do anything about it now, especially not kept where he was. But he couldn’t deny his fears—not to himself, anyway—because he knew he had valid reason to fear.

If Merlin didn’t come to rescue him, then there was an awfully good chance that Morgana had captured him. How much she knew on the matter of his magic was likely a moot point, as from what Merlin had managed to tell him, Arthur was fairly certain Morgana was not overly pleased with him. Her treatment of him would not be overly hospitable.

But if Merlin did not come for him, then it was quite likely the next face he saw would be Morgana’s.

And, since Emrys would not appear to stop her, she would try one last time to get information out of him before deciding she’d better continue her search elsewhere and dispose of him.

Which would mean he’d failed his people. Failed Gwen and the knights and Gaius and Merlin, who had so much faith in him. Failed to fulfill his apparent destiny, to unite the land of Albion and bring about the Golden Age of Camelot. He would be conceding it all to Morgana, and whatever followed—for he certainly wouldn’t be around to see it, which was the only blessing—would be disastrous, the antithesis of what it should be.

Because Arthur was not so foolish to think that Gwen would be enough to stand in Morgana’s way. Not alone. Maybe, if Merlin was there to help, but if he was indeed the thorn in Morgana’s side as he’d claimed to be, then he would not be. Chances were all too good that she would dispose of him the moment she figured out a way to leash his magic.

“I’m sorry, Merlin,” Arthur murmured. “I should have thanked you in the very beginning.” Now, he wasn’t sure he’d ever get the chance.


	24. Chapter 24

Gwaine’s return to consciousness was not jarring but gentle, brought on not by a sudden spike of pain but by a warm breeze.

Opening his eyes to see Morgana’s pet dragon looking at him, however, was more than a bit unnerving. He was on his feet before he realized he was not only not dead but also very, very well, all things considered.

Especially since the last thing he _could_ remember was burning pain, his throat feeling as if it was raw, torn apart by silent screams. 

The dragon blinked at him, tilted its head, and chirped.

_“Aithusa won’t attack us,”_ Emrys had said, and that was apparently still true. Yet, it was more than that. It had to be.

Truthfully, Gwaine’s knowledge of dragons mostly came from stories he had never entirely believed. He knew of their sheer power, their strength, their magic….

And if everything he’d heard _was_ to be believed, he’d just witnessed the last. 

But why would Morgana’s dragon heal him? Him, the one Morgana had tried to kill? The one Morgana _would_ have killed, were it not for her dragon? It didn’t make sense. 

He didn’t understand dragons.

It chirped at him again, its head coming forward (and down) to bump against his hand. Not quite believing it, he patted the creature’s head as he might a horse’s. “Good dragon,” he said, still patting as he edged down to pick up his fallen sword. “Good boy. Girl. Whatever you are.” 

He wasn’t sure what had happened here, but it was easy enough to guess. Charred tapestries and scorched stone left little to the imagination. But neither Morgana nor Emrys (for she must have been fighting against Emrys, since Gwaine had little doubt that Merlin had gone to find him) were in sight, so he wasn’t sure what the outcome of the battle had been.

He wasn’t going to look for them, though. The sorcerers could keep themselves occupied as far as he was concerned. Since Morgana wasn’t with Arthur, this was his best chance to find—and free—the king.

There had been no sign of Arthur when he’d been looking with Emrys, and he’d never overheard a whisper when he’d been in the kitchens with Merlin. Chances were good that, wherever Arthur was, it wasn’t where anyone had run across him.

Which made sense, as Morgana wouldn’t want to risk someone letting him out without her knowledge as had happened with George—and Gaius, if she even knew he was gone.

Gwaine may not have spent a good chunk of his childhood growing up here as Morgana had, but he’d been around long enough to know the castle fairly well. It helped in situations like these—also in situations where he was sneaking around to see if he could hook a chicken from the kitchen under the cook’s nose or nab a wineskin from Arthur’s stores, but that was beside the point.

Though, the store rooms would be a good place to start. Anywhere in the bowels of the castle, for that matter. While Gwaine had little doubt Morgana could have easily knocked Arthur out, if she hadn’t wanted to waste the energy, she’d put him somewhere where his bellowing wouldn’t be heard. And since Arthur’s bellowing could be heard for quite a distance, that meant her best bet was the thick stone walls that made up the foundations.

Besides, now that he thought about it, Emrys had been working in that direction; they’d been heading towards the passageway which led down to the vaults and the network of other rarely-used rooms hidden beneath their feet. He’d just been checking all the rooms on the way, just in case. Merlin would have told him about George, and no one deserved to face Morgana’s ire, so Gwaine couldn’t _really_ be frustrated that the sorcerer had stopped to check behind every locked door even if it had taken time.

As it would take him a heck of a lot longer to do that, though, he’d check what he thought were the more likely places first—once he grabbed the picks he’d hidden in his quarters, anyway. Then, all he’d need to do is hope that Arthur was conscious and could call out in return when Gwaine yelled for him—and that Emrys was sufficiently distracting Morgana so she wouldn’t catch him.

None of the servants stopped him when he took a torch from its sconce and delved into the darker passageways below the castle, the ones that were typically only lit whenever they were in use. He did get a few sidelong looks, of course, but it wasn’t long before he was walking alone in places he doubted anyone else would be venturing to, anyway.

“Arthur?” Gwaine called. He got no response when he stopped to listen, so he repeated himself, louder, as he moved along. Just when he was beginning to wonder if he’d gotten it wrong, he heard something and called out again, “Arthur?”

Gwaine held his breath, and finally he heard a muffled, “In here!”

Morgana had locked Arthur in the vaults after all. Ah, well. Gwaine didn’t exactly regret checking the wine cellar first, even now. He’d really needed something stronger than water to wet his whistle.

If Arthur—or even Merlin, though Gwaine didn’t wholly expect it from Merlin—tried giving him a hard time over that revelation (which really _shouldn’t_ be a revelation if his reputation stood for anything), then he’d point out that almost dying should have called for a much stiffer drink than his quick nip of one of the king’s fine wines.

Gwaine, however, was soon reminded of how heavily secured the vaults were, and he had to go through one set of locked gates before he even caught sight of Arthur. The king looked rather dismal, locked up with what Gwaine believed were thought to be some of the more valuable artefacts in a separate section of the room. Arthur squinted at him despite shielding his eyes, and Gwaine held one hand in front of the torch light. Arthur must have been in the dark for a while.

“Where’s Merlin?” Arthur asked. 

“Last time I saw him, he ran off to fetch Emrys,” Gwaine said. He wasn’t going to mention Merlin’s secret to Arthur; he could do that himself, if it ever came to it. 

“So where’s Emrys?”

Gwaine shrugged. “My best guess is with Morgana. I’ve been looking for you, Arthur, not keeping track of where everyone else is.”

“Emrys is with Morgana?” Arthur repeated slowly, sounding like he didn’t like that idea at all. He’d stopped squinting now, though, and dropped his hand, so Gwaine did the same, thankful Arthur’s eyes had finally adjusted to the light.

“I’d assume so. Last time I saw them both, they were together. Fighting.” Let Arthur think he’d been caught in the crossfire and only just come to; it was near enough to the truth, and Gwaine wasn’t sure he could really explain the truth. “Here, can you hold this?” He’d had enough trouble juggling it and picking the last lock without getting burned.

Arthur’s hand snaked out to awkwardly grasp the torch through the bars, but his expression was grim when Gwaine settled down in front of the lock. “I’ve tried that. I don’t think it’ll work.” He stopped, looked hard, and added, “Is that one of my wineskins?” 

With a bit of difficulty, Gwaine managed to get it through the bars to Arthur, who drained what Gwaine had left. He handed over the little food he had stuffed in his pockets when he’d met Merlin in the kitchens earlier, too, before leaning in again to examine the lock. “No offense, sire, but I’m sure I’ve had more practice than you.”

“So am I,” Arthur muttered. Then, louder, “I’m sure Morgana locked it magically. I doubt ordinary means will spring it.”

“Just because you couldn’t get it?”

Arthur scowled. “No, because it’s _magic_.”

“Maybe so, but magic isn’t exactly infallible. We’d all be dead and Morgana would be ruling Camelot undisputed if it were.” Assuming, of course, that Emrys—and Merlin, if Merlin had enough magic to do anything substantial—couldn’t stop her.

Arthur snorted but said nothing, merely watching as Gwaine began to work on the lock.

“This is different from the last lock,” Gwaine commented after a moment.

“There’s not much point in having this section separated from the rest if it could be opened by the same key.”

Gwaine grunted but didn’t argue. It made perfect sense, of course, but it just made his job harder. He was determined to get Arthur out of here, no matter how long it took him. He just needed to think. Morgana had used magic to lock Arthur in, he got that. But what was the difference between something that was magically locked and just plain locked? Arthur seemed to think there was a difference—that, despite doing everything correctly, the mechanism still wouldn’t spring open.

Gwaine figured, if anything, it was more likely just to make everything stiffer, as if the lock hadn’t been opened in a very long time, not as if he were trying to open a lock with the wrong key.

At least, he figured that much since Morgana must’ve been pretty certain Arthur wasn’t going to get out without help anyway. She wouldn’t have left him here if she’d had any doubts.

Heck, if she’d had any doubts, she could’ve gotten the dragon to guard Arthur again. That would’ve deterred anyone, except perhaps Emrys. Sure, the dragon might’ve healed him earlier, but Gwaine still wasn’t sure why, because that had been the first time he’d seen it act against Morgana’s wishes.

Not counting the not-attacking in the throne room earlier, of course, but Gwaine had chalked that up to Emrys being there.

Gwaine lost track of time, but before long the king was losing his patience. “Why don’t you go see if you can find Merlin?” he suggested. Gwaine stopped long enough to shoot him a dubious look—since Arthur wouldn’t know Merlin had magic, he wasn’t sure what the king thought his manservant could do—and Arthur rolled his eyes and added, “He knows where I keep all my keys. Morgana can’t have done away with every set in the castle.”

“A key can’t do anything I can’t,” Gwaine pointed out. Arthur huffed but did not argue. Gwaine was going to have to take Arthur’s suggestion soon, though, if he wasn’t successful. If only magic _could_ spring the lock, they’d need Merlin.

And Gwaine could always pretend to be wrong about the necessity of an actual key. It wouldn’t be any good for Arthur’s ego, being apparently proved right, but Gwaine was willing to listen to Arthur’s boasts and put up with his general manner of putting on airs if it got him out of Morgana’s clutches.

About two minutes later, Arthur started again. “ _Now_ can you go get Mer—?”

The lock sprung.

Gwaine grinned and got to his feet, taking the torch from Arthur and pulling the door open before making an exaggerated bow. “You were saying, sire?”

Arthur rolled his eyes and took the torch back. “Let’s find my idiot manservant before he gets himself killed.”

-|-

“I’ll set out to speak on your behalf,” Leon offered.

Gwen bit her lip. “I appreciate the offer. I really do. But I don’t know if I wish to lose someone who can be so valuable to us.” Not on this particular matter, anyway. She simply wanted to send out a runner to find out if anyone would be willing to aid them in the fight against Morgana.

She trusted Emrys; she did. But she couldn’t just do _nothing_ when Arthur was Morgana’s prisoner. Assuring herself of the support of surrounding nations seemed infinitely better than biding her time in the forest.

If she had to wait, she could at least wait for news on more than one front.

“Queen Annis would appreciate a modicum of decorum,” Leon reminded her.

Gwen laughed, sounding more desperate than she wanted to. “I’m not in the best position to grant that,” she said. Then, conceding his point, she added, “But you’re right; it is something I should not overlook.” It didn’t make the decision any easier, however. The people she would normally send on such tasks—her first choices, anyway—were not present.

But she was used to making do.

“Choose a knight to go,” Gwen decided. “Someone you feel we can spare but is within the upper ranks and will be recognized as such. Have him borrow a horse from one of the villagers and promise the owner compensation; I’ll see it paid out once this mess is over.” She pressed the first of the messages—sealed with wax from one of the candles Leon had brought back with him, though not pressed with Camelot’s royal seal—into Leon’s hand. 

Still holding the second, she turned and looked for George. He’d proven his loyalty time and time again, and from what she had heard of Rodor and Mithian, Nemeth would be more accepting of a makeshift messenger than Caerleon. 

She’d decided against personally alerting Camelot’s other allies. Quite aside from not having the people to send, she didn’t want to draw too many people into the battle if it came to that. She wasn’t above asking for help, but she knew it was prudent to try to solve the problem without it first.

But this was Morgana, and the problems she posed—the _threats_ she posed—were not ones to be taken lightly, and they were not ones Guinevere could resolve on her own. 

Right now, she was depending on Emrys, but she was painfully aware that the tiniest mistake on his part could cost Arthur his life. 

She didn’t want to pin all her hopes on one person.

Gwen touched George lightly on the shoulder, and he immediately stopped what he was doing—skinning an already-gutted rabbit—and looked expectantly at her. “My lady?”

“Wash up,” she said gently. “Someone else can finish that.” She could do it herself, but she didn’t need to hear his protests right now. “I’d like you to ride to Nemeth and deliver this message to King Rodor.” She smiled apologetically and tucked it into his pocket. “Requisition a horse from one of the villagers but assure them they will be fully compensated.”

“Of course, my lady,” George said. He inclined his head to her before nodding to another servant who promptly took over his job. George headed off to the stream to wash up, and Gwen hoped she’d done the right thing.

She wasn’t ready to rule without Arthur yet.

“Gwen!”

Elyan’s voice. Gwen turned and caught sight of her brother dashing into the clearing. She moved quickly to meet him, the concern clear in her eyes. “What now?” she asked.

“Help, I hope,” Elyan replied. “You’ve got visitors.”

“Visitors?” Gwen repeated, brow furrowing. Morgana didn’t have an army, and if someone on her side had found them, Elyan wouldn’t be speaking just to her—or in this tone. 

Elyan gave her a small, half-smile that she knew meant he wasn’t sure what to make of the situation but was hoping for the best. “Druids.”

-|-

Merlin groaned.

He’d have to ask Gaius for something to rub on his joints. His entire body ached, from tip to toe, and something simple like willow bark tea wasn’t going to cut it this time. Although he had a horrible feeling that if he asked for something stronger, Gaius would hand him an awful tasting remedy containing things he didn’t even want to know about but would drink (and then learn to make) anyway.

Merlin finally managed to wrench his eyes open. He saw Morgana’s smirking face and remembered, all too clearly, precisely _why_ he was so sore right now.

“ _Forþ fleoge_ ,” Merlin whispered, making sure to mutter the spell so Morgana would have a harder time countering it.

Nothing happened.

“ _Forþ fleoge_ ,” he repeated, more forcefully. 

Still nothing.

Merlin licked his lips and pretended not to notice how Morgana’s smile had grown. Focusing instead on her dress, right where it touched the floor, he murmured, “ _Forbaerne_.”

Still his magic didn’t respond, and Merlin began to feel frightened. His magic was a part of him; it couldn’t just be cut off like this. It wasn’t _meant_ to be cut off like this. 

But it was.

And he felt…weak, exhausted, like he’d been physically wounded or terribly ill, for its absence was no less devastating to him.

He wasn’t just a sorcerer who had been stripped of his magic; he was a warlock who had been stripped of his very self.

He understood now, far better than he ever had before, the fear in Morgana’s eyes when he’d done the same to her.

“How does it feel to be weak?” Morgana hissed. “To be helpless? You are nothing, Emrys, without your magic.” Her eyes burned gold with a power Merlin could no longer grasp, and Merlin—who had been slumped against a column in the throne room—was jerked roughly to his feet. Morgana whispered a few words more and Merlin found himself bound in place by invisible ropes.

He didn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing him struggle.

He knew he couldn’t break free now anyway.

“You’ve got me,” Merlin spat. “Let Arthur go.” And Gwaine…. He still wasn’t sure what Morgana had done to Gwaine. He hadn’t so much as moved a finger when Merlin had last seen him, and he hadn’t looked good.

He wasn’t very good at healing spells, but he hadn’t gotten close enough to Gwaine to know if they would have done any good or if it was….

But he hadn’t wanted to risk doing nothing, so he’d done the only thing he could: distracted Morgana during combat and called for help.

He wasn’t even sure if Aithusa had heard him, since he couldn’t remember if he’d finished his commands before Morgana’s spells had hit him.

He had to hope that she had, though. Kilgharrah had told him that the white dragon boded well for Camelot’s future. Given Aithusa’s actions thus far, Merlin couldn’t see how that would be true unless Morgana suddenly found that her last ally was not an ally at all.

Merlin wasn’t wholly confident that Kilgharrah hadn’t been wrong, however, or that he hadn’t just told Merlin what he’d wanted to hear so that he wouldn’t think on the matter much.

It was at times like these that he wondered if he put too much faith in the Great Dragon’s words, but they’d been proven true before, so….

If he didn’t have faith in Kilgharrah’s words, if he began second-guessing everything he had ever been told by the dragon, then the vision of Camelot he was trying to help Arthur build may as well be hollow and empty and something which would never be achieved no matter how much he strived for it. He would never succeed if he were broken, surrounded by the pieces of a shattered dream.

And he would never succeed if he allowed Morgana to win now.

There had to be a way out of this.

Somehow.

“Why would I ever do that?” Morgana sneered. “Arthur will get what’s coming to him. It’s long overdue.”

“It is not your place to reign, Morgana. You were not meant to replace Arthur, whatever you’ve deluded yourself into believing.”

Morgana’s lip curled. “Arthur wishes to hunt me down as a traitor, but the greatest traitor here is you. You’ve turned your back on your people—”

“I’ve _helped_ people,” Merlin interrupted.

The response was met with laughter. “Helped Arthur and his father before him slaughter them, you mean?” Before Merlin could splutter out a denial, Morgana had crossed the space between them and stood so close that they were nearly nose to nose. “Doing nothing was as damning to them as it was to me, Emrys—or are you trying to forget that?”

Merlin held her gaze but said nothing.

“Have you favoured none with guidance but Merlin?” Morgana demanded. When he didn’t answer, she continued, “I’ve realized why you think him so special, if not why you condemned the rest of us.”

Merlin wondered what Morgana believed, as it clearly couldn’t be the truth or this wouldn’t be the conversation they’d be having. But any hope he had that she hadn’t realized he had magic was gone now, one more part of secret exposed, one more piece of his protection stripped away.

If Morgana knew the truth—this much of it, anyway—then there was no way Gwaine would mistake it.

Morgana drew back abruptly. “But Merlin will not remain a thorn in my side if you are not in a position to help him, and Arthur will pay for the crimes he’s committed.”

“Arthur is trying to see magic returned to Camelot. Isn’t that what you want, Morgana?”

“I want justice for my people,” she returned. “For all the blood that’s been spilled and the magic that’s been lost—”

“And killing more is going to help?”

“Don’t pretend to be so righteous! You’ve killed as many as I, Emrys, in this war.”

“This isn’t a war.”

“If you truly believe that, then you are the one who has fallen prey to your own delusions, not I.” She smiled at him then, a smile both beautiful and terrible. “But perhaps you simply don’t want to admit that you’ve finally lost.”

Merlin forced a smile of his own and, with more confidence than he felt, taunted, “Perhaps that’s because I haven’t.”

“The binding effects may not be permanent, but they’ll hold even the great Emrys long enough to give me time to finish this,” Morgana shot back. “I’ll kill Arthur first, so you can see how futile all your efforts have been, and then I’ll see to the traitor Merlin.”

Merlin was very, very thankful that Morgana hadn’t realized she had already taken care of her second point. “And Gwaine?”

“The knight?” Morgana said it as if it were beneath her consideration, as if Gwaine were of absolutely no consequence. “His life force should be drained by now.”

She’d killed him.

At least, she had if Aithusa hadn’t arrived in time.

Merlin closed his eyes and took a slow breath. He could feel his magic now, burning brightly in the centre of his being, but he couldn’t _grasp_ it. No matter how he tried, it eluded him. Well, that wasn’t precisely true. It strained against the bonds that held it in place, writhing in an effort to be free, but try though he might, Merlin couldn’t release it. Morgana’s curse hadn’t begun to crumble, and it was all too effective in keeping him separated from his magic.

Merlin finally opened his eyes to look at Morgana again. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’ve won until this is truly over.”

“Until you’re dead, you mean?” Morgana looked unimpressed by his warning, the venom in her voice the only indication of how she bristled at it. “That won’t take long.”

“You don’t know how long you have.” To be fair, Merlin wasn’t entirely sure, either. If Morgana had used the same curse he had—and that was quite likely, considering she’d put him in an enchanted sleep to ensure that the curse had time to mature—then it lasted only until the person’s magic could throw off its bindings. 

Merlin thought that he was still stronger than she, but he wasn’t precisely sure when she’d broken free of it. All he knew was that by the time he’d blasted her away from Guinevere, she’d regained enough power to get herself to safety. 

“I’ll have long enough.”

Merlin kept his mouth shut. However much he wanted to continue taunting Morgana, it would do him little good. If anything, it would encourage her to run him through with a sword right now, and that…. He didn’t want that to happen. If she wanted to see him suffer first, well, that at least bought him time. He should be thankful.

He just didn’t feel very thankful at the moment.

Morgana, who had no reason to fear leaving him unguarded but was willing to err on the side of caution instead of foolishness, called for Aithusa. When the dragon had joined them in the throne room again, she went to fetch Arthur.

Merlin had never been so glad to be alone with the dragon as he was right now.

And he was never more frustrated that Aithusa couldn’t—or wouldn’t—speak when he asked her what had become of Gwaine, for the only response he got to his questions were chirps whose meanings left too much room for interpretation on that particular matter.

Merlin knew Aithusa’s magic would not free him from Morgana’s, but he asked her to try, anyway; if there was the tiniest chance that she had learned something that would help him from all the time she’d spent with the witch, he would be the foolish one to ignore it.

But by the time he heard footsteps again, nothing had changed.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has been reading, and especially to those of you who have been taking the time to comment as well! Just a bit of a heads up that I'm taking slightly more literary license than usual as far as the characterization of one of the characters goes in this chapter, but seeing as I've left canon far behind by this point, I don't feel too badly about that. *grins*

Arthur knew better than to burst into rooms unchecked, and he knew better than to use the main passageways. But for all that he and Gwaine had been creeping along one of the many servants’ passages—he didn’t recall them being so _narrow_ when he’d been a child young enough to be able to play freely with Morgana—Arthur abandoned all pretence of being quiet when they checked the throne room and he caught sight of Merlin.

Merlin didn’t look like himself, of course. He looked like Dragoon. Emrys. But he was pressed up against one of the far columns, ramrod straight and unnaturally stiff, and Arthur was moving to help him before he realized that things weren’t quite that simple.

He should have really noticed the dragon earlier, but it kept quiet. Aside from turning its head to look at him, it didn’t move, so Arthur continued carefully on his way.

Morgana wasn’t there—something he _had_ had enough sense to ascertain before moving into sight—but Merlin was surely bound by magic, and Arthur wasn’t wholly sure why.

He’d been harbouring the (admittedly somewhat distressing) belief that Merlin was more powerful than Morgana.

He’d been foolish enough to think that meant Merlin wouldn’t end up in a situation like this.

“What happened?” Arthur hissed when he was close enough.

He was still too close to Gwaine not to be overheard, and the knight in question snorted. “Morgana happened,” he said. Seeming more at ease around the dragon than Arthur had expected, Gwaine turned his back on it. He put his hands on Merlin’s shoulders and gave an experimental tug, but whatever kept him from moving his limbs kept him bound to the pillar behind him as well. “Looks like you’re stuck here.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Merlin bit out irritably, sounding like the crotchety old man he always did when he took on this guise. But his harsh tone was belied by the look on his face, which betrayed him as both surprised and relieved.

Arthur closed his eyes, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that, for all that the man didn’t look like Merlin, it really _was_ Merlin. There was knowing it, and there was…seeing it once he knew it. “But why are you here?” Arthur asked. Merlin glared at him, and Arthur amended, “Why are you still here? Can’t you just…?” He waved a hand.

“Use magic?” Merlin supplied bluntly. 

Arthur met his gaze unflinchingly, reminding himself yet again that this was just _Merlin_. “Yes.”

“He’s got a point,” Gwaine said easily, nodding at Arthur. “What’d Morgana do to keep you here like this? You’ve always managed to get away before.”

Merlin deflated. “Morgana did to me what I did to her the last time we met. She bound my magic.”

Arthur frowned. “So you can’t use magic?”

Merlin huffed. “What did I just say?”

“So we can’t do anything?”

Merlin’s eyes shifted to Gwaine, and he answered, “Not right now.”

To Arthur’s ears, that meant, _Yes, but I can’t tell you when Gwaine’s here_ , or possibly, _Yes, but not while anyone else is around_.

“We don’t have much time,” Gwaine pointed out. “Morgana could be back at any moment.”

“Sooner rather than later,” Merlin said. “She went to fetch you, Arthur, which means you and Gwaine have to get out of Camelot. Now.”

“While you’re here?”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “No, once Morgana throws me in the dungeon. Yes, while I’m here!”

Arthur set his jaw. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Stop being an idiot,” Merlin snapped. “You have to.” And Arthur knew what Merlin wanted to say but wasn’t: _I’m not going to have you sacrifice yourself for me. You can’t risk Camelot. You can’t endanger your destiny. If you don’t go, Morgana will kill you. I won’t let that happen._

“Gwaine,” Arthur said, “check the corridor. Make sure Morgana’s not coming back yet.”

“Better yet,” Merlin countered, “grab the king and _get out of Camelot_.”

“Gwaine,” Arthur repeated when Gwaine didn’t move. The knight pulled a face but followed Arthur’s orders, knowing the king well enough to know the warning in his tone. This wasn’t one of the times Arthur would tolerate an argument.

“Clotpole,” Merlin muttered, his continued glare at Arthur ensuring there was no mistaking the subject of that particular comment.

Arthur didn’t care that Merlin was calling him made-up names again, though, because his manservant was being an idiot. “How can I get you out of this?” he asked.

“You can’t,” Merlin replied. “That’s why you need to leave. _Now_.”

“But you said we couldn’t do anything right now,” Arthur argued.

Merlin looked at him as if _he_ were the idiot. “Exactly.”

“But I sent Gwaine out of the room!”

“So? It’s not going to get my magic back any faster, and I’m not going to be able to do anything until I have it back.”

Arthur sighed. “And you’re stuck looking like this, too, so we can’t even sneak you out.”

“I can’t move until I’m able to break through Morgana’s magic,” Merlin reminded him, since they both knew Morgana wasn’t just going to let him go. “But, no, I think all I’d need to do to look myself again is swallow the potion in my pocket. It should still reverse the aging spell.”

“Then swallow it!”

“It won’t do me any good! I’ll still be here, and I don’t need Morgana wondering why Merlin suddenly turned up in Emrys’s place.” Merlin fell silent for a moment, but before Arthur could think of another argument, he said, “She told me Gwaine was dead. That she’d killed him and that she was going to go and kill you.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Morgana’s lying shouldn’t surprise you.”

“It doesn’t. But she didn’t…. She didn’t sound like she _was_ lying.”

“Perhaps she didn’t think she was. We know that’s in her plans.”

“And that’s why you have to go. Please, Arthur.”

“I’m not leaving you!”

“You don’t have a choice!”

“Yes, I do, and I’m making it! I’m not leaving you, Merlin. I _can’t_. Not after everything you’ve done for me.”

“Which will be for _nothing_ if Morgana catches you now!”

Arthur closed his eyes. “I trust you, Merlin.” He opened his eyes again and added, “Now trust _me_ enough to stay here and help you. I’m not going to abandon you and leave you to the likes of Morgana.”

“You have to!”

Arthur ignored Merlin and rummaged through Merlin’s pockets, finding the hidden vial. Holding it up, Arthur asked, “So you need to drink this and then you’ll be yourself again?”

“Put that back,” Merlin ordered sharply. “I can’t use it now.”

Arthur pocketed it. “Then I’ll hold onto it so Morgana doesn’t find it.” Ignoring Merlin’s immediate protests was a simple enough task, and it wasn’t long before Gwaine returned and reported that the coast was still clear.

“Good,” Merlin said, sounding testy. He glared at Arthur before switching his gaze back to Gwaine. Taking the opportunity to change the subject and quell any further argument on Arthur’s part, Merlin said, matter-of-factly, “Aithusa healed you.”

Gwaine shifted uncomfortably. “Might have, if dragons can do that.”

Merlin smiled, suddenly looking a good deal more gentle than he had moments before. “They can, and she did.”

“Why would Morgana’s dragon heal Gwaine?” Arthur might not be happy with the change in subject, but they couldn’t very well continue it with Gwaine listening in—and he was curious to know the answer.

He hadn’t even known dragons could heal humans.

“Aithusa doesn’t belong to Morgana,” Merlin said, which didn’t really answer Arthur’s question. “Dragons don’t belong to anyone.” And before Arthur could repeat his question—or ask why Merlin seemed so certain in his knowledge of dragons or (since Arthur still hadn’t figured it out) how Merlin knew the dragon’s name in the first place—Merlin added, “You’d better get out of here while you can. I’ll catch up.”

“How?” Arthur demanded.

Merlin’s gaze hardened. “Trust me,” he said.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “You can’t—”

“ _Trust me_ ,” Merlin repeated. There was an edge in his voice which Arthur recognized, the sharpness of a command which was not to be questioned, and Arthur found himself automatically falling back.

When logic reasserted itself a moment later—he was the _king_ , after all, and Merlin was most certainly _not_ his father, however much he had been able to command the same presence for a few precious seconds—Arthur still didn’t argue. 

Oh, he _wanted_ to, but he simply gritted his teeth and ground out, “Fine.” He didn’t want to, but he’d made the decision to trust Merlin, and he didn’t want to go back on it. Certainly not so soon after telling Merlin he trusted him, for all that he hadn’t expected to find his word tested quite yet. “But we’ll wait for you in the south passage, and if you do not join us soon, we’re coming back for you.”

“We need to find Merlin before we go anywhere,” Gwaine added pointedly. “Last I saw him, he was running off somewhere—presumably to fetch you.”

Merlin closed his eyes for a moment and then said, without opening them, “I’ll send Merlin after you in my stead, but I’d rather he not leave quite yet. I’ll need his help.”

“Merlin can’t do anything to help you right now,” Arthur said, daring Merlin to contradict the statement. 

To Arthur’s surprise, Merlin didn’t. To his further surprise, Gwaine did. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Gwaine said slowly. “Merlin’s resourceful. I could see him being useful.” Then, perhaps in response to Arthur’s dumbfounded stare, “What? You don’t think he’s resourceful after looking after you for so many years?”

Merlin had a curious expression on his face, and Arthur suspected Merlin could read more into Gwaine’s statement than he could. 

The secrets were never going to end.

“Fine,” Arthur bit out again. “Gwaine, with me. Emrys…. If I don’t see Merlin in ten minutes, we’re coming back for you.” It was safe enough to assume that Gwaine would think Arthur was concerned that Emrys had not managed to get free as opposed to not managed to find Merlin and send him their way. “In the meantime….” Arthur reluctantly withdrew the potion he’d just pinched from Merlin and tucked it back into his manservant’s pocket. “Keep that safe for me,” he added, for Gwaine’s benefit.

Arthur didn’t wait for Merlin’s response; instead, he turned and jerked his head toward the servants’ entrance, and Gwaine fell in step beside him.

He’d made it two steps before he heard Merlin’s voice bellow, “ _Run_!”

He’d only begun to comply before he was thrown off his feet.

They’d taken too long.

-|-

Gwen met with the Druids at the farthest and most secluded end of the clearing. It was a small gathering—just the three Druids, herself, and Elyan. The others had continued their work, shooting curious (and, inevitably, suspicious or disapproving) glances in her direction but not stopping their preparations. 

They still trusted her, at least.

But they wouldn’t have stayed with the group if they didn’t.

Gwen kept her attention on the Druids, trusting that Leon and Gaius had things well in hand. They were both trusted men that others were willing to follow, and she knew they held as much sway as she did—or possibly even more than she, among a few people. Nevertheless, she had their approval, and that was well known, especially after Arthur’s recent announcement. They had enough experience directing people that they could curtail any who were bold enough to make trouble. 

That was all just as well, really, because she had not expected to be doing this without Arthur, and she had certainly not expected to be doing this here, now. The meeting was devoid of most of the usual protocols, although she expected that the Druids appreciated that, even if she could detect no such conveyance through their expressions. In truth, she could read distressingly little of the situation. In the brief time since she’d begun this informal meeting, only one thing had become clear to her: the youngest in their party was their leader.

And she knew why, even before the boy—and he still seemed a boy, not yet a man, though she knew he had to be close to it in years—introduced himself.

“Mordred,” Gwen supplied before he himself could. She stared at him in wonder. She remembered when she’d first seen him, a pale slip of a boy whose terror had been clear even in his exhaustion. She remembered helping Morgana and Merlin care for the boy, fetching Morgana little things she thought he’d need to make him more comfortable and covering for Merlin so Arthur wouldn’t find him or feel the need to find out precisely what his manservant was actually up to.

She hadn’t even known Mordred’s name back then.

Mordred gave her a small smile. “Queen Guinevere.”

“Gwen,” she corrected automatically. She felt she knew Mordred better than his companions, having helped Morgana and Merlin care for him, and she hoped they might make more progress—and quicker progress—if she stressed her intention to dispense of formalities. “What brings you here?”

“We—” and here Mordred gestured to his companions, who had introduced themselves earlier as Arlen and Elowen “—came to speak with King Arthur, in light of his recent changes to Camelot’s laws.”

“News travels quickly, then,” Gwen said.

Mordred raised his eyebrows. “Not quickly enough.”

Gwen heard the unspoken _What happened?_ , so she said, “Arthur’s proposals were met with more resistance than he had anticipated, and Morgana seized the opportunity when she saw it.”

“Morgana?” Mordred repeated.

Gwen, who well remembered how close Morgana had felt to Mordred, wondered if the reverse was true—and if it had been then, whether it was still. “I once thought that Morgana would be pleased to see the day come when it became clear that Camelot would no longer always remain without magic allowed in its borders, but I was wrong.” Gwen bit her lip. “I’m not sure how much you heard, but Arthur intends to go further, if he ever has the opportunity again. He doesn’t want to restrict magic any longer. Not like his father had. But he certainly doesn’t want to see it practiced as Morgana uses it, and now I fear she intends to kill him for standing in her way.”

Elyan placed a hand on her arm, too late to stop her from saying more than she ought to have.

“Gwen can’t go back there,” he said. “Morgana would have her killed on sight. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s tried to be rid of my sister.”

“Yet Morgana has Arthur?” Mordred pressed.

Gwen nodded. “Emrys is with him, helping. It’s my only consolation.”

Mordred visibly started. He shared a long, uneasy glance with his companions but said nothing to them, instead finally looking back at her. “You know of Emrys?”

“You didn’t hear of Arthur’s search?”

“I never heard that anything came of it,” Mordred replied carefully.

Gwen pursed her lips, not entirely surprised. Even without the rumours flying thick and fast in the lower town, she could hardly have expected the entire story to have already filtered past Camelot’s borders. “Arthur found him,” she said simply.

Mordred suddenly looked considerably less like the man he was going to become and more like the little boy she remembered him as. His companions showed no such emotion and still kept back, allowing Mordred to have the reins of the conversation on their end. But for all that this clearly wasn’t the first time Mordred had been in this role, his inexperience showed.

Elyan, who clearly saw the same thing she did, said it first. “You know who he is.”

Mordred swallowed his nerves. “I grew up hearing stories about him,” he said, “and I’ve never forgotten the times I met him.” A pause. “I hadn’t expected that he was ready to reveal himself, even in light of Arthur’s changes.”

That Mordred had met Emrys more than once didn’t, now that she thought about it, surprise her at all. They’d already concluded that Emrys had been working within Camelot for far longer than any of them had realized, so to think that Mordred had had the sorcerer’s additional protection when he’d been in Camelot before wasn’t unexpected.

Like Arthur now—and perhaps even then, given how he’d allowed himself to be baited by Morgana into not truly searching as well as he was supposed to have—Guinevere doubted Emrys was fond of seeing children condemned to death, as would have happened had Uther found the boy.

“Arthur may not even have made the changes he has now had Emrys not allowed himself to be found,” Gwen admitted quietly. “He has a good heart, but he is more set in his ways than he realizes sometimes. It blinds him.”

“And binds him,” Mordred said, clearly unafraid of criticizing a king who was not his own. “He is not the king he can be just yet.”

Gwen frowned, picking up in Mordred’s tone what he was not saying. “I thought your people would be pleased with Arthur’s progress.”

“We are,” Mordred assured her. “We came to recognize that.” He hesitated, then admitted, “I, myself, was simply surprised to hear the news about Emrys. I was not certain he’d ever step out of the shadows.” Another slight hesitation, then, “You seem to be taking it well.”

Gwen glanced at Elyan before turning her gaze back to Mordred. “What’s not to take well? He has saved us all. I’m grateful. I owe him my life.”

Mordred did not miss the look she’d shared with Elyan. “Even though that means was likely through his magic?”

Gwen gave Mordred a pointed look. “If I were as afraid of magic and its bearers as most, I would not have been comfortable helping to hide you in Morgana’s chambers. You’re marked, Mordred, and I had to sweep up enough shattered glass that I’ve no doubt you have magic like your guardian did.”

Mordred shifted uncomfortably but did not deny the statement. From the slight expressions on the faces of his companions—a hint of a smile, a reflection of pride—Gwen suspected that Mordred’s magic was perhaps stronger than most of his kin. If not, then the pride was solely in how well he wielded it, so much more effectively than he had as a terrified child. Far from weak and sporadic, his magic was likely sharp but controlled. Not tamed; she’d be a fool to assume magic was something that could be tamed. It was wilder than the woods in which she stood. But Mordred did not have the position he did now because he was thought a skilled orator.

“I’ve told you of the present situation,” Gwen said. “Where do you stand, and what is the position of your people, if you are able to speak for them?”

Mordred hesitated a second too long, and Arlen put a hand on his shoulder. The elder Druid stepped forward, saying, “We do not stand with the witch, but we cannot swear that all of our people stand with us. There are too many with fresh memories of what has been done to them by Uther and his son.”

“But will you help us?” Gwen pressed, well aware that not allying with Morgana did not necessarily mean allying with them.

Arlen’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he said, “We should not involve ourselves.”

Gwen was reminded, too strongly, of when Uther had refused to send forces to help Hunith when Ealdor had been in danger. He had preferred to stand by and let Merlin’s village be crushed because it was in a neighbouring kingdom and he had found that the cost of helping—the strain it would have placed on his relations with Cenred—outweighed any benefits he would have seen from it. 

She supposed, given Camelot’s stance on the Druids for so long, that one small change was not enough to wipe clean the past. She hadn’t really expected it to, but their ambivalence towards her current plight was shockingly clear.

Gwen nodded slowly, acknowledging Arlen’s words. “Very well. I would suggest you return in a week’s time if you wish to speak to Arthur. If he….” She closed her eyes, not wanting to say the words but knowing she had to. “If he is unable to see you, you may speak with me again. Good day.”

The meeting was over, and the Druids began to withdraw. Gwen watched them go, noting Mordred’s initial reluctance and the tightness of Elowen’s guiding hand on the boy’s arm. She stayed where she was until they were out of sight.

“Want to bet they’ll be back?” Elyan asked quietly.

Gwen’s lips quirked into a small smile. Trust Elyan to feel the same as she did. This wasn’t finished yet. “Mordred, at the very least,” she said. “Sundown, you think?”

“Supper,” Elyan replied.

-|-

Morgana had not wasted her time wondering how Arthur had gotten out. When she returned to the throne room and found Gwaine alive and well, she did not question it, either. 

Emrys had done it.

She wasn’t sure how, but he had. 

Arthur’s manservant was still conspicuous by his absence, and she suspected he was enacting another piece of Emrys’s plan. No matter; she’d deal with him soon enough. Since Arthur had been so kind as to come here all on his own, she wasn’t going to deprive Emrys of the show before he was faced with his own death.

“You’ve not won yet, Morgana,” Emrys croaked.

She ignored him; he was merely trying to unnerve her, to distract her by looking for ways he could have bested her when there were none to find.

“Aithusa,” Morgana murmured, reaching out to the dragon. Aithusa had done just as she’d asked, and Morgana remained thankful for it. She stroked the dragon gently, murmuring a few words of praise, and then stepped back and said, “Guard him,” with a pointed look at Emrys. She was going to deal with Arthur herself, and she still didn’t trust that Emrys didn’t have something else up his sleeve.

Morgana needed the extra pair of eyes right now.

Aithusa chirped at her, a sound more reminiscent of questioning than understanding, but she moved to watch the warlock again without further hesitation.

Morgana turned her full attention to Arthur and Gwaine, both of whom had recovered enough to stand within the circle of flames she’d instructed to surround them. A part of her dearly wanted them to suffer for all the suffering they’d caused _her_ , but it seemed every time she stopped to savour her near-victory, Emrys found a way to delay the inevitable.

She’d had enough of that.

Lifting a hand to direct her spell—she didn’t really _need_ to, but she was beyond taking chances at this point—she barked out, “ _Acwele_!”

A roar, low and rumbling and altogether indistinct, sounded in her ears, and she saw the flames of her previous spell climb higher, unbidden.

Morgana blinked and turned, casting an accusatory look at Emrys— _only it couldn’t be him, not now, not without his magic_ —and realized that the flames were not her own but ones which had come from Aithusa’s fire, rising to devour—or deflect; she couldn’t be sure—her spell.

Aithusa’s fiery plume cut off and she chirped an apologetic note at Morgana. 

Morgana felt betrayed, hurt in a way she had not quite been since Merlin had deliberately tried to poison her.

She’d never expected Aithusa to turn against her. 

“What have you done to her?” she screeched, focusing her rage on the one man who _had_ to be responsible, even if she had no idea how. Suddenly she no longer cared that Emrys saw Arthur’s death; she wanted the sorcerer dead _now_ , and the best time to do that was when he was helpless.

But she wanted an answer first.

“ _Forbærne_ ,” she whispered, watching with satisfaction as flames sprung up from the sorcerer’s robes.

To Morgana’s satisfaction, Emrys flinched as the flames licked at his feet. It was akin to the fate he’d have faced when she’d first realized his interference in her plans, the time Uther had sentenced him to the pyre. 

She didn’t typically approve of Uther’s methods, but she would have been better off if Emrys had burned long ago.

“What have you done to her?” Morgana repeated.

“Aithusa’s actions just now were her own,” Emrys said. “I merely made sure she knew both sides.”

“You’re lying,” spat Morgana.

Emrys’s eyes flicked over her shoulder—the fool was probably trying to convince Arthur and Gwaine to run as if they’d get far enough to make a difference—but she resisted the urge to turn to see what he was looking at.

The flames at his feet rose higher, the stench of burning cloth threatening to mingle with that of burning hair and flesh. But though Emrys could shuffle his feet in a futile attempt to delay the flames from reaching him, her spell still bound him to the pillar as surely as if she had held him there with unbreakable chains. 

But perhaps not so unbreakable, if Emrys had managed to free Merlin from such chains before the serkets had come upon him.

Emrys met her gaze without flinching. “No, I’d be lying if I said I had nothing to do with Aithusa helping Gwaine.”

The first thing on Morgana’s tongue was a denial, but she couldn’t give it voice in light of Aithusa’s treachery. “Then I’d be a fool to delay ridding myself of you any longer,” Morgana snarled. She opened her mouth to scream out the spell that would destroy Emrys once and for all—

—and Emrys _roared_.

The words washed over Morgana in a rush, blurring into incomprehension, and she flinched away involuntarily. The sound was soaked in a rich, ancient power that was as inhuman as the Dorocha, but this magic didn’t hold the same life-sucking cold as that had. Whatever this power, it was not beyond Emrys’s reach as that of the Dorocha had been from her.

He had not released something he knew little about, as she had in her last act with Morgause’s guidance.

This, he controlled.

Morgana cracked her eyes open again when she felt a rush of wind on her face, and she saw the sharp, directed wing beats of Aithusa steal the breath from the fire she’d set on Emrys. The fierce wind eroded the fiery ring that held the knight and her dear brother, and Morgana let the spell die. She had thought that she had rendered Emrys helpless, but very clearly she had not.

She would need all her strength to end this.

And perhaps it would be wise not to depend solely upon spells and curses. Morgana spun on her heel, murmuring a spell and stretching out an expectant hand. The knight’s sword spun toward her—Arthur was unarmed or she would have chosen his—and she gripped it easily. For all that she hadn’t needed to use a sword since Emrys had locked away her magic, her skill hadn’t been dulled much in the two years it had been since she’d truly wielded one. 

She had no doubt she was still better than Arthur, even though she’d need to be little better than Merlin to deal a fatal blow to an immobile target.

Morgana was aware of Arthur and Gwaine scrambling towards her, towards _Emrys_ , in a futile attempt to reach them. Aithusa moved to come between them, fire threatening to burst again from her maw, and Emrys opened his mouth again, more incomprehensible words tumbling from his lips as he tapped into magic he shouldn’t possess, shouldn’t be able to reach, not with her curse in place.

But Morgana was too quick for them all.

In one swift move, she lunged forward and drove the sword into Emrys’s flesh.


	26. Chapter 26

Merlin screamed.

Arthur didn’t _want_ to hear that, but he’d rather Merlin’s screaming than Merlin’s silence right now.

Morgana pulled out the bloodied blade, and Arthur just focused on running, not sure whether he was going to try to tackle Morgana or check on Merlin. He decided he’d figure that out once he _got closer_.

He knew Gwaine was flanking him, was confident that Morgana’s once-loyal dragon would yield to him—he wasn’t sure _why_ , but he felt it with an inexplicable certainty he’d come to trust, just as he’d come to trust almost everything else involved with Merlin in ways he didn’t yet understand—and realized that he didn’t care that he was advancing on Morgana unarmed.

She’d attacked Merlin.

He couldn’t forgive her for that.

Something _shifted_ , and Merlin finally collapsed forward, the sudden end to his scream leaving Arthur’s ears ringing in the silence. 

Arthur—who realized now his feet had been taking him to Merlin all along anyway—collapsed beside his fallen manservant. Gwaine was a split second behind him. Arthur was aware enough of Morgana that he turned and rolled when he sensed her moving closer, but before he could ready himself for a fight, the dragon sent a plume of fire in her direction. Morgana backed off, clearly startled despite the dragon’s earlier actions, and Arthur was absurdly pleased when Morgana’s soothing words were cut off with an angry roar from the dragon that was no longer hers—and never had been, if Merlin was to be believed.

Gwaine was already pressing on Merlin’s wound, but the darker stain of red was showing on Merlin’s robes.

Morgana hadn’t driven the sword into his heart, and Arthur could only assume it was because she wanted Merlin to suffer. She always wanted him to suffer, just as she thought she had, no doubt.

She didn’t realize that Merlin already had.

He was thankful for it, though. Morgana had given them a little bit of time. Not a lot, admittedly. Arthur was no physician, and his knowledge of the healing trade was passable at best, but he knew enough to know that this wound would still kill Merlin—distressingly soon—if he didn’t do something to stop it.

But he had time to try, and that was enough.

“We need to find Merlin,” Gwaine said in a hushed voice, his eyes flicking back over Arthur’s shoulder to keep watch on Morgana and the dragon.

“No,” Arthur said.

“Merlin can help,” Gwaine insisted.

“Merlin can’t help us now,” Arthur said, his voice gruff as he stared down at his manservant. Merlin’s eyes were closed, the one truly identifying mark he had in this form hidden from the world, and Arthur had never wished so hard that that wasn’t the case. But Merlin was pale, and Arthur knew he had to figure out what to do fast.

He should have figured it out by now.

“He _can_.”

“He _can’t_ ,” Arthur shot back. “I don’t care how many years he’s trained with Gaius, he _can’t_.”

“He can. Merlin knows more than you think. You should stop underestimating him, Arthur.”

“I’m not underestimating him,” Arthur ground out.

“You are,” countered Gwaine. “Merlin has more talents than you realize. If anyone can help Emrys, it’s him.” He glanced again at the dragon. “Or Aithusa, but she’s distracting Morgana, which is a blessing in itself. So Merlin’s our best bet.” 

They couldn’t afford to keep arguing here. While the dragon was keeping Morgana occupied, it wouldn’t be long before she found the time to send a spell sailing in their direction. Arthur motioned Gwaine back and, with difficulty, picked Merlin up. Under ordinary circumstances, Gwaine would watch his back and cover him as he moved toward safety. This time, since there was nothing Gwaine could do to defend them, the knight ran ahead to make sure the way was clear for Arthur.

That Arthur didn’t even have to issue any orders, do nothing more than jerk his head toward the main doors, spoke volumes.

Arthur didn’t dare move far, and Gwaine, being sensible for once, motioned them into the nearest room with a bed. Arthur doubted barring the door behind them did any good, but if it slowed Morgana down for even a second, it was worth the attempt.

Merlin was murmuring under his breath as Arthur laid him down, and he was beyond grateful that his manservant was even semi-conscious. 

But he only needed to look at the blood staining Gwaine’s hands and his own—not to mention Merlin himself—to know that Merlin might not be able to respond to them.

For the first time in his life, Arthur desperately wished he knew more about magic. Not just in the broad sense, as Merlin was endeavouring to teach him, but specifics. Especially this aging thing Merlin had done. Did the physical appearance carry through to the inside? Would Merlin have more of a fighting chance if he was back in his usual, younger body?

Did Arthur risk that he would and still do nothing, solely because Gwaine was here?

“Emrys,” Arthur said, shaking him a bit. Then, slightly louder, “Emrys.”

It wasn’t helping.

Arthur leaned close to Merlin’s ear and hissed, “ _Merlin_.”

It still did no good.

A small part of Arthur wondered if Merlin was at all deaf when he looked like this. He certainly acted irritable enough to be bothered by all the aches and pains that came with age even if his senses weren’t dulled. It really was quite possible that his body was weaker in this guise.

Arthur glanced at Gwaine, who was listening at the door for any hint that Morgana may have followed them, and then dug back into Merlin’s pocket for the potion. He dearly hoped it didn’t have to be taken in accompaniment with a spell. Merlin hadn’t implied that was necessary, but Merlin had implied a lot of things that weren’t true in the past, and Arthur couldn’t remember Merlin ever mentioning something specific about this. Then again, Merlin would have had no reason to. Arthur certainly hadn’t asked for details about it.

Gwaine abandoned his post by the door and instead took up residence beside Merlin, looking him over with a critical eye while Arthur preoccupied himself with prying off the stopper. 

It was on a sight tighter than he was used to.

Or perhaps it was simply because his hands were trembling, even if he didn’t want to acknowledge that aloud.

He didn’t want to lose Merlin.

Certainly not now.

“He’s fading quickly,” Gwaine observed quietly. “I’m going to go look for Merlin.”

Arthur’s fingers finally loosed the stopper, and he set the vial down before he dropped it. “No,” he said, his voice stronger than he’d expected. He’d never thought he’d be the one to say this to Gwaine, and he’d never thought he’d be telling this to anyone without Merlin’s permission. 

Well, perhaps Gwen, but that made this all the stranger, telling Gwaine before he told Guinevere.

But Merlin’s secret wasn’t worth his life.

Gwaine gave him a look and turned to leave, so Arthur added, “You wouldn’t find him.”

Gwaine raised his eyebrows. “We don’t have time to argue, Arthur. Merlin can help Emrys. End of story.”

Arthur glanced at Merlin one more time, assured that the continued muttering meant something vaguely positive, at least for now. “There’s more to that story than you know.”

Gwaine, who had been moving to the door again anyway, stopped in his tracks. Then, coming back over to face Arthur, he asked, “You know?”

Arthur blinked. “ _You_ know? About…about Merlin?” That didn’t make sense. Gwaine couldn’t know—he wouldn’t be claiming Merlin would be able to help Emrys if he did!

“I just found out,” Gwaine admitted quietly. “Morgana’s probably figured it out, too. It wouldn’t take much to put it together when I certainly didn’t move on my own.”

Gwaine knew Merlin had magic.

Gwaine _and Morgana_ knew Merlin had magic.

But at least Morgana wasn’t likely to have made the connection between Merlin and Emrys yet if Gwaine hadn’t. 

Unless there were a few key incidents between Morgana and Merlin that Arthur didn’t know anything about, which was unfortunately all too possible.

Arthur took a slow breath. He’d worry about that later. He had to stay focused. He had to figure out a way to help Merlin.

And restoring his youth fell in line with that, at least in Arthur’s books, because he didn’t need to be a healer of any sort to know that young adults tended to weather ailments better than seniors. At least, that held true of stabbings, which was Merlin’s current predicament.

“But if you know about Merlin, Arthur, why won’t you let me see if I can find him? He could help.”

Arthur took a split second to appreciate how much better Gwaine was apparently handling the revelation of Merlin having magic than he had before he decided he didn’t have any more time and just said, “Because Merlin’s already here.”

Gwaine looked at him like he’d lost it.

“Hold his head up,” Arthur said, gripping the vial. “I don’t need him choking on this.” He saw the comprehension dawning on Gwaine’s face even before he’d tipped the contents of the vial down Merlin’s throat. 

Merlin swallowed reflexively, and in very little time indeed, they were looking down upon a very familiar (but much too pale) face.

“Merlin’s Emrys,” said Gwaine quietly, still sounding shocked. “I just thought…. When I found out he had magic, I thought Emrys had been teaching him, and Merlin returned the favour by helping him whenever he needed it. I didn’t think….”

“You had no reason to. Merlin wasn’t keen on anyone knowing if he could help it.”

Gwaine gave him a steady look. “You just found out. That’s why you’ve been like this these past few weeks, isn’t it?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Now’s not the time for this.”

Gwaine sent Arthur another pointed look but didn’t press the subject. Instead, he turned his attention back to Merlin. “He’s got his magic back,” he said, “but doesn’t seem to be strong enough to use it.”

“He’s barely conscious.”

“That doesn’t matter as much as you think it does,” Gwaine pointed out. “Don’t forget, I’ve run into my fair share of sorcerers—ones who _weren’t_ intent on killing me, unlike you. I’ve had a few good conversations.” 

Silence reigned for a moment, with both of them wondering what to do—neither of them had the skill to save Merlin, and Arthur didn’t want to think about where Morgana was right now if the dragon wasn’t still keeping her occupied—and then Gwaine asked, “Why keep lying? We were alone, the three of us, in the throne room. You could have told me then.”

“I didn’t know you knew.”

“Merlin did, or at least he would’ve suspected it.”

Arthur snorted. “Suspecting wouldn’t have been enough. Not with Merlin. Not after a lifetime of lies.”

“I wish he’d trusted me.”

Arthur closed his eyes. He knew that line of thinking _very_ well. Unfortunately. “Merlin lies to protect people,” he explained, still not bothering to look at Gwaine. “Sometimes he does it to protect himself and sometimes he does it to protect us. He seems to think that whatever is sacrificed by perpetuating the lies he does is worthwhile, that the benefits outweigh the costs.” Arthur stopped for a moment, then opened his eyes and added, “I think, at some point over the course of his life, he forgot that the truth can protect us, too. It can keep us from acting on incorrect assumptions or waiting for something that cannot happen.”

“Like me, just now.” Gwaine blew out a breath. “It’s just…hard to picture Merlin as Emrys, even after seeing it. Striding around with that staff of his—” Gwaine broke off, his eyes going wide. “That staff! It would help. I’m sure of it.”

Arthur was less sure of it, but he was willing to try anything at this point. “Do you know where it is?”

Gwaine shook his head, already moving and stuffing a pillow under Merlin’s head. “No, but I’ll find it before Morgana finds us.”

Arthur knew what Gwaine left unsaid: _or die trying_.

“Hurry,” Arthur said, because it was all he could say. 

-|-

Mordred had expected to need to sneak away to get back to Gwen and the rest of them. That wasn’t the easiest of tasks, slipping away from Druids—particularly when the pair of Druids you were trying to avoid were well aware that you were liable to try such a thing.

But as it turned out, they didn’t even try to stop him.

That unnerved him a bit more than he’d admit to anyone else.

They’d been sure to get him away, to give him enough time to realize that he couldn’t just _leave_. Gwen…. She’d been kind to him, from what he remembered. Arthur…. Arthur had helped him when he’d needed it, and he was making strides now that Mordred had never dared to hope he’d make when he’d first seen the then crown prince of Camelot.

Then there was Morgana, who had taken her magic down paths he’d never thought she’d tread, and there was Emrys, who had become inexplicably distant from him.

Both had been kinder souls when he’d first met them, with Morgana quick to care for him and Emrys willing to risk the king’s wrath to protect him. Mordred wasn’t sure what had changed.

Morgana’s practice of magic was darker than her raven locks, a blackness that Mordred was fairly certain had nearly, if not completely, choked out the light he’d seen in her. But Emrys had put on a different mask long before she had, going so far as to use his own magic in an effort to see Mordred caught by Uther’s men.

Mordred had not forgotten that incident, and he had not forgiven it. But he was not the naïve boy he had once been, and he wanted an explanation, if there was one to be had. Emrys’s actions had been too inexplicable, the change too sudden, for there to be no reason behind it.

Mordred wasn’t sure if he could forgive Emrys, but he could perhaps understand why he had done what he had.

But he’d need to speak to him before the warlock was discovered by Morgana, for her current actions made her intentions all too clear. 

And if others had discovered that the one they knew as Merlin was the legendary Emrys, Morgana would not be far behind.

Yet that could not be the reason Arlen and Elowen had studiously ignored him, the reason they had closed their minds to him. They were not allowing him to leave solely to warn the others of what they should already know.

It was quite possible that they knew of his intention to find Emrys, but it was curious they would not remark upon it, were that the case. 

If he breached Camelot’s citadel now, his presence was unlikely to go unmarked by either Morgana or Emrys. If he found Emrys and not the other way around, then that could be the final piece Morgana would need to see the truth for what it was. Arguably, it was _dangerous_ to go to Camelot now. It threatened the tentative peace Arthur was trying to establish.

Still, Mordred didn’t even have to _try_ to cover his tracks, and he knew it simply wasn’t because he was retracing his earlier steps in the dim light of the dying day. Not that most of the usual measures would be of any use when his destination was apparent, but there were many tricks to be employed to keep him from reaching that destination. Instead of encountering them, his path was clear.

He was left with the uncomfortable impression that whatever he was doing was not simply a choice of his but something that was necessary, something that would have had to have been done somehow, played out in some way. 

It was a terrifying thought.

He had long known that the Elders believed him to have a destiny. His magic was strong, powerful. What had been raw when he’d been young had become refined, sharpened. He was skilled. There was speculation that the only two more powerful than he were the two he would very well meet once he reached the citadel.

The trouble was, Mordred knew not what the fates would use him for. 

And he certainly didn’t like the thought that this might be part of it, that his destined role was one of which Elowen and Arlen were aware and that it was the reason they had made no move to stop him.

Each step of his away from them could be a step driven by destiny rather than his own desire.

Mordred had tried to discover all he could, of course. He’d diligently sought out every version of every prophecy of which he’d ever heard tell. He’d combed the old stories for a phrase which might have been written in reference to him, as so many had been written in reference to Emrys and—he had long since realized—Morgana. He’d always been driven by a strong thirst for knowledge, but at the same time, he’d always been wary of finding out too much.

Of not liking what was to be.

Of knowing that such things would come to pass, in one way or another—often in much more terrible ways if anything was done in an attempt to stop them.

Mordred had had many years to try to uncover what he was destined to do—if indeed he was one destined to do anything, for the comforting possibility that he wasn’t remained—but all he’d ever managed to garner was a disquieting sense that something was being kept from him, that part of the tales were being left unspoken in his presence.

This was not the first time he had wondered if Emrys’s choices so long ago had been made because he had known then something Mordred still did not.

It was unlikely to be the last.

The uncertainty drove Mordred forward, however. He disliked the darker implications silence held. He wanted it broken. He wanted to be free of what he dearly hoped were imagined constraints.

But he wasn’t sure whether each step took him farther away from an imagined destiny or closer to the very real one about which he knew nothing.

-|-

Morgana didn’t want to hurt Aithusa.

She was angry at her, yes. But Aithusa had suffered greatly on Morgana’s behalf already, and Morgana didn’t want to prolong her suffering. This betrayal…. It was misguided, she was sure of it. Something Emrys had managed to convince the dragon was necessary. This wasn’t Aithusa’s will; it was Emrys’s.

Somehow.

Morgana had little doubt how deadly Aithusa could be if she chose, and she knew the dragon well. A killing strike had not been made. The flames had been intended to force her away, to get her to back down, rather than to consume her entirely. Aithusa might be fighting her, but she didn’t want to hurt Morgana any more than Morgana wanted to hurt Aithusa.

Morgana used a shield spell to block the latest blast of fire, then dropped her arms and fixed Aithusa with a look. “Why are you fighting me?” she asked gently.

Aithusa chirped a response, head swivelling to look at the place Morgana had once had Emrys bound. He was no longer there—Arthur and Gwaine had removed him a while ago now, though Morgana knew there was little if anything they could do to help him—but Aithusa’s meaning was clear enough. 

“But why protect him?” Morgana pressed. “He has done nothing for you!”

Aithusa snuffled and snorted, cocked her head to the side, and gave the trill that Morgana had only ever known the dragon to reserve for her.

The realization hit Morgana immediately. “He’s family.” In the dragon’s consideration, at least. She had no idea when Emrys would have established a bond with Aithusa. Surely she’d spent more time with the dragon than he? 

Yet Aithusa thought him family, and she defended him as such.

As she saw it, Morgana had been the one to turn on one of their own.

She would have to approach this entire situation differently. Aithusa’s torn loyalties…. At least she knew the cause for it. Emrys had not managed to turn her dragon against her; he’d merely disrupted their understanding. It was not enough to break the bond they shared.

“Aithusa,” Morgana murmured gently, reaching out to stroke the dragon, “we don’t need to fight. I understand. I won’t force you to choose between us.”

Aithusa chirped and nuzzled Morgana’s hand, but Morgana was not feeling as warm as her words.

Aithusa had already chosen between them when she’d decided to defend Emrys. Whatever loyalty Morgana saw now was not as strong as she’d first thought. If she was to finish off Emrys, she’d have to do it out of the dragon’s sight or she’d have to battle her again.

And Morgana didn’t want to punish Aithusa for being young and misguided, for having her mind poisoned by whatever Emrys had said to her.

Because he wasn’t her family. He was her enemy. And if Morgana couldn’t get Aithusa to see that, then she’d have to take care of the matter in a more subtle way.

An ordinary sword might not be enough to kill Emrys quite yet, but it would certainly slow him down, and his magic—which she knew had burst through the confines of her curse when he’d managed to collapse the spell binding him in place—would be preoccupied with healing him, with keeping him alive. He was vulnerable now. 

If his magic hadn’t come back so quickly, then she likely would have killed him. As it was, she still might have. But she preferred being certain.

“Go,” Morgana told the dragon. “Rest. You’ve been using much of your strength. I’ll have someone bring something for you to eat.” Aithusa chirped once more before turning, and Morgana was relieved. She hadn’t lost Aithusa’s trust.

She’d need it, if she were to turn this situation back on Emrys.

Assuming he lived long enough for that to be necessary, although Morgana intended to make sure that it _wasn’t_ necessary.

Emrys was her destiny, she’d been told. He was her doom. But Morgana wasn’t going to blindly fear any longer. She could act against him. She could prevail.

And she would hold her own destiny in her hands.

Arthur might be the Once and Future King of the legends, but if he were, Morgana intended to see his current reign cut short. It wouldn’t be difficult once she’d disposed of Emrys.

And if he proved himself to be overly difficult, she’d find a way to incapacitate him if she couldn’t rid herself of him forever. 

Morgana’s confidence faltered, however, when she recalled what Emrys had done.

The worst of it was that she didn’t know precisely what he _had_ done, and therefore she had no way to prepare for it or to combat it. The magic he’d used had been unrecognizable. 

Well.

That wasn’t _entirely_ true.

There had been a moment where she thought she’d recognized it, but the feeling had passed before she’d been able to place it. It felt like an echo, something she remembered from her dreams, but she hadn’t thought she’d ever forget a feeling like this. It was raw. It was powerful.

It was stronger than she, in this state.

But Arthur had been stronger than she was as well, and she had found a way to weaken him. She could do the same with Emrys—providing the sword had not already done the trick.

The dying effects of the curse was another boon, for she knew all too well that after an initial burst of power, her magic had been slow to return. She had no reason to think Emrys would be any different, and with all his magic turned inward, he would have little—if any—to use against her. 

That other magic…. 

It had had no seeming effect when Emrys had called upon it, but Morgana did not know his intentions. It may have done something that she had yet to sense. She would have to be on her guard, but she didn’t think Emrys was in any state to invoke it again. 

Morgana was determined to be sure of that, however.

She would not lose again.


	27. Chapter 27

Gwen had been watching for Mordred’s arrival, certain it would come sooner rather than later, and in the end she still missed it. She’d been doling out portions of stew as best she could—they only had a few bowls, so they had to eat in shifts and it made judging amounts that much more difficult—and just as she was scraping out the pot, Mordred appeared in front of her. He was holding a freshly scrubbed bowl and wearing a grin. 

“Any left?” he asked.

“A little,” Gwen conceded, scooping the scraps into the bowl. “I hope that’s enough.”

Mordred produced a spoon and stuck it in the bowl. “You tell me,” he said, passing it to her. The confusion must have shown on her face, for he laughed. “You need it more than I do,” he said. 

Gwen took the bowl but did little more than twirl the spoon in her hands as she led Mordred to one of the logs they were using as seating. It was empty now, its previous occupants washing up or fetching more wood for the dying fire or otherwise keeping busy with the last of the day’s tasks. “I’m not very hungry,” she said.

“You should still eat,” Mordred said, exactly as Elyan had not fifteen minutes earlier. “You need your strength.”

“I can’t do anything,” Gwen said, painfully aware that she had done all she could.

“You can survive,” Mordred countered, “and you don’t seem surprised to see me, so….”

Gwen smiled. “I did think you’d be back,” she admitted. “You were reluctant to leave.”

Mordred exhaled slowly. “We should not involve ourselves,” he said, repeating Arlen’s earlier words, “but I just….”

He didn’t seem to be able to put it into words, but Gwen could guess what drove him. “You owe Arthur a debt,” she said quietly, “because he helped you when you were a child.”

Mordred nodded slowly, but he wore such a haunted look that Gwen wasn’t sure that that alone was the reason—or whether or not Mordred himself knew what else had pushed him to act, pushed him to return.

He seemed afraid. 

That wasn’t wholly unusual; they were _all_ afraid. But his fear…. Gwen recognized it. He was afraid not just of the unknown, of things beyond his control, but of what he might do or had already done. She’d felt the same when Lancelot had returned, when she’d found herself feeling things she’d never again wanted to feel for him, for doing things she was a fool to do. 

She’d been afraid of what might have come from her actions before she’d done anything, and she’d feared the retaliation she well knew she deserved once she had, but she’d never thought of any consequences in the moment, and that had scared her as well. She hadn’t felt completely in control of herself. It had been terribly unnerving.

Mordred, unless she was very much mistaken, was feeling the same: he was driven to do what he was doing yet terrified it was something he shouldn’t, something that would end dreadfully, and at the same time felt unable to stop himself.

“Did you know about Morgana?” Gwen asked quietly.

Mordred’s eyes shifted to her, his expression unreadable now in the distant flickering firelight and the dim glow of the small fire before them. “Not at first,” he admitted. “Her power hadn’t fully awakened. I realized her potential after I first met her.”

“So you knew what she would become once you met her again?” Gwen prompted.

“I knew her potential,” Mordred corrected softly, “but not, precisely, what she would make of it.”

Mordred knew more than he was saying. “Not at first?” Gwen guessed.

Mordred said nothing, but Gwen could read volumes in his silence. She had no doubt Mordred had known Morgana’s nature before she. Of course, that wasn’t saying particularly much, as Emrys appeared to be the only one in Camelot who had known where Morgana’s loyalties truly lay before she’d openly attacked them all.

“But you knew of Emrys,” Gwen said, knowing Mordred did not wish to speak of Morgana.

Mordred took the opening for what it was. “As I said, I’d heard stories. His magic… It is distinct. It fills his being. He….” Mordred shook his head. “I was gifted with the ability to use magic, yes. I have a greater connection with it than most. But Emrys is different.” He looked Gwen in the eye. “Emrys _is_ Magic.”

The importance weighed heavily on the words, but Gwen wasn’t quite sure she understood it. “Of course he can use magic—” she began tentatively.

Mordred cut across her easily. “It’s more than just using magic.” He cupped his hands together and whispered a word, and a small flame burst into life between them. Gwen did her best not to start in surprise. “I have to concentrate to keep the fire burning,” he explained. “Not fully, not with something so small, but I….” He stopped, as if he wasn’t sure if he should continue.

Gwen, who had never heard the like of this before, wondered if he was allowed to share such things with her or if they were secrets the Druids—and other magic users—were meant to keep amongst themselves.

“The magic travels through me,” he continued slowly, “and sustains the fire. It will burn until I close the path, cutting off its life force, or until I do not have the strength to sustain it.” He closed his fingers, and the fire was snuffed out, extinguished as if he had never called it into existence. “I have magic. Finding it, using it…. That always came easily to me. I did not have to be taught to seek it out. The same is true of the lady Morgana. Most common sorcerers do not have such a gift and must slave to learn spells and potions, to find and harness even a tiny spark of magic in this world. Those without….” He looked at her with something akin to pity. “You cannot even feel it, have no concept of how much you are missing without that ability.”

The words chilled Gwen, for they reminded her of something about which she had always wondered. The idea of magic had sent chills down her spine—not just fear of what it could do, but wonder at what its use felt like and the cold knowledge of how her view of the world was forever skewed for she could never understand how differently a sorcerer saw the same world she did. How much more could a magic user see that she could not? What small detail could she spot that someone with magic would be liable to glance over, considering unimportant?

“But Emrys…. He would still have magic even if he were landed in place that was utterly devoid of it, a place where I would be as powerless as you. His magic is a part of him, its strength based on his own, and he has greater power if he opens himself up to the magic of the land.” Mordred gave her a wry smile. “Which I expect he often does, whenever he can. He certainly can use the energy that would give him.”

Gwen frowned, certain there was a meaning in Mordred’s words that she was not catching. “You’re saying that is why he is so spry?”

Mordred’s eyebrows climbed. “You don’t know who he is.”

The certainty in the statement unnerved Gwen. “Of course I do,” she said, although she no longer quite believed her own words. “Emrys is the one we once thought was Dragoon.”

Mordred cocked his head at her, just slightly, before shaking it. “Perhaps he is,” he said, “but he has another name as well.”

The cold Gwen felt now had nothing to do with the onset of the night’s chill. “What is it?” she asked. “What is his name?”

Mordred didn’t answer.

“Please, tell me. I’ve no desire to hurt him.”

Mordred didn’t look at her now, instead fixing his gaze on the dying embers. Gwen made a mental note to stoke the fire sooner rather than later. “It is his secret to share, not mine.”

“But I wish to thank him for all he has done. Myself, in person.”

Mordred finally turned back to her. “Yes, I imagine you do, but I expect he knows as much already. But he once asked me not to share his name. He is powerful, Guinevere, but he has more enemies than you. His secrecy protects him, and your ignorance protects you.”

“Because Morgana wants to find him,” Gwen realized.

Mordred inclined his head slightly. “You are right to put your trust in him, for he is at the centre of Morgana’s failure, the light which drives away her darkness.”

There was a trace of something in Mordred’s words that Gwen couldn’t quite identify, and she frowned. “Do you not trust him?” she asked.

Mordred said nothing for the longest time. Once Gwen was certain he wouldn’t answer, he did. “I don’t know. He’s helped me in the past, but he’s also tried to work against me. One time he helps me to escape the king’s men; the next, he tries to ensure my capture. I don’t know why.”

The stew in Gwen’s hands had gone cold. She set it down and rested a hand on Mordred’s arm. “You don’t know for certain he tried to see you captured by Uther’s men,” she said.

Mordred shook her off. “No, I do. But his reasons for doing so are beyond my understanding. He does not trust me, so I cannot trust him.”

“Yet you’re willing to help Arthur, despite your ambivalence towards Emrys?”

“I owe Arthur a debt,” Mordred said, echoing her earlier words. 

“And you wish to speak to Emrys.”

Mordred didn’t deny her words. Instead, he picked up her abandoned bowl, whispered a few words, and handed it back to her. She could feel its warmth seeping into her fingertips. “I should keep going. You’ll be safe here.”

“Mordred,” Gwen said, stopping him from doing more than standing. She rose to join him and added, “Thank you.”

“I haven’t done anything worthy of thanks yet,” he countered.

Gwen smiled. “You came back.”

“They let me come back,” Mordred murmured, so softly Gwen was certain it hadn’t been meant for her ears. Then, louder, “Eat. You’ll need your strength.”

She’d not hear a different message from anyone at this rate. Gwen obligingly took a small bite. “Are you sure we can’t give you something for your journey?”

Mordred shook his head. “I’ll be fine. I—” He broke off, craning his neck upward.

Gwen looked up as well, though she could see nothing out of the ordinary in the night sky—the little she could see of it through the trees, anyway. “What is it?” she asked. But even as the words left her mouth, she could hear it. There was a low, steady beat that was building quickly. The treetops began to rustle, and she felt the breeze whip down through the trees. A dark shape passed overhead, blotting out for a split second the few stars she could see, and then it was gone.

“What was that?” she asked. Her first guess was ludicrous, of course. It was impossible. But it had reminded her so strongly of when the Great Dragon had attacked Camelot, she’d almost guess it was one of his brethren. 

But the dragons were all gone, save for the one Morgana had mysteriously managed to tame, and that one, from the stories Leon had brought back, was much smaller. Younger, if Gwen were to guess. But this…. It had been _enormous_ —certainly something ancient.

Mordred looked paler than he had before. “I should go,” he said. “I…. I don’t think I’ve time to waste walking. I didn’t know….” He trailed off and shook his head. 

Gwen knew what he didn’t say: he didn’t know how far the situation had deteriorated. 

But if he thought he could do anything to stop it from getting any worse, she wasn’t going to stop him.

“Go safely,” she said.

Mordred nodded distractedly, glanced around, and murmured a few words she didn’t catch. In the next breath, he was gone.

Elyan found her shortly thereafter. “What passed overhead?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. If Mordred recognized it, he didn’t tell me.”

“But did you learn anything from him? We made sure no one interrupted you.”

Gwen knew her brother well enough to know who _we_ included—himself, Percival, Leon, and no doubt anyone else he could recruit to the task without explaining his reasons. Had she not still sent George to Nemeth, she had no doubt he would have been among that number.

“I learned some,” she admitted. “Mordred acted for his own reasons, as we suspected. But he has gone to help.”

“By means of magic.”

Gwen shrugged helplessly. “Yes, but…. He would have had his own reasons for it. He’s wary despite Arthur’s new ruling, and I cannot say I blame him for it. I think he would have preferred continuing on foot.”

“Until he realized he didn’t have the time to spare.”

Gwen could hear in her brother’s voice that Elyan wanted to go back as much as she did. “I fear as much, yes.” She wrung her hands together. “I think…. I think he’s more likely to be detected by arriving this way. Emrys, Morgana…. They’ll know of his presence before they would have otherwise. He’s taking a great risk.”

Elyan said nothing for a long moment. Then, “We could take advantage of the distraction, as much as there is of it by the time we arrive. We may be able to free Arthur.”

There was nothing Gwen wanted more, but she remembered the message George had carried to her. Emrys had asked for time, time to end things without more bloodshed. Gwen wanted to grant that request.

But time might be the very thing Arthur did not have.

Gwen bit her lip. “All right,” she said at last, “but only take a small party with you. You’ll…you’ll have a better chance.” _Stay safe_ , she wanted to say, but she knew that was impossible. Mordred had magic; he had a chance to counter Morgana. Elyan…. The only advantage he had was surprise, but once he lost that, she could lose him.

It was for that reason she didn’t insist upon joining them.

She couldn’t, not right now. Perhaps later, if she had any way of divining the outcome of their arrival, but she knew her husband well enough to know that he would never forgive himself if she got herself killed trying to rescue him, nor if Morgana got them both and neither of them could stand in the way of her claiming Camelot’s throne as her own. As long as she lived, Morgana had opposition. Arthur cared more for Camelot than anything else. She needed to be here to ensure that she could keep it safe, even for just a little bit longer.

Gwen didn’t want to think what state Camelot would be in if there were none within her borders who could legitimately claim the throne. 

-|-

Gwaine couldn’t find the staff anywhere.

He’d been hoping that he would find it in the hallway where Morgana had intercepted them. He’d had no doubt in his mind that Morgana and Emrys— _Merlin_ , though the thought still unsettled him a bit—had fought. He hadn’t remembered seeing it, but then again, he’d never looked. He’d been more preoccupied by the fact that he’d woken up with a dragon breathing over him.

Gwaine had then checked what he’d thought were the usual spots: Morgana’s former chambers, Gaius’s, the council chambers…. He hadn’t really thought she’d put it somewhere she hadn’t been relatively recently, and certainly not where someone else would stumble across it. 

Although the last was likely the reason he hadn’t come across it yet.

He’d even checked the armoury in case she’d tried hiding it in plain sight, although Gwaine might admit if pressed that that was partly because he wanted another sword.

Gwaine had taken a torch and was going through the vaults before he really allowed his thoughts to wander.

It was a bit harder to come to terms with the fact that Merlin was _Emrys_ than that he had magic, but it explained an awful lot—especially the few things that hadn’t quite made sense when Gwaine had assumed Merlin had merely been helping Emrys, magic or no. And Gwaine…. He understood why Merlin hadn’t told him, hadn’t told any of them. He accepted that. The trickery still hurt, but he got it.

Merlin, after all, had better reasons for keeping his secret than Gwaine had for keeping his. 

None of that changed the fact that Morgana had just run his best friend through with a sword, however.

At least Merlin was a fighter. Gwaine could take that much comfort. He was strong and just as stubborn as Arthur himself, so he’d hold on. He wouldn’t let Morgana win, not like this.

Never like this.

“Where did she put that bloody staff?” Gwaine muttered as he left the vaults. She hadn’t had it with her; he knew that. It hadn’t been in the throne room. Morgana wouldn’t have dared to keep it in the same place she kept Emrys. She would’ve put it somewhere she thought was safe from everyone besides her—especially Emrys.

Gwaine just didn’t know where that was.

And he was afraid he was running out of time.

Arthur and Merlin weren’t far. Morgana might be looking for a guy with a long beard, but if she found Arthur in the meantime, Gwaine had the feeling she wasn’t in the mood to delay things any longer. Morgana enjoyed playing her games, but only so long as she felt in control.

As soon as that control began to slip, as soon as it looked like she might not come out on top, Morgana would end things.

And Aithusa—Gwaine was really beginning to like that dragon—wouldn’t hold her off forever.

Gwaine paused at the top of the stairs to return the torch to its sconce. He didn’t want to return to Arthur empty-handed, but he was running out of ideas. If anyone might know what Morgana had done with the staff, it would be Merlin. If he was coherent enough…. Gwaine could save a lot of time by asking him where he thought it might be.

The corridor still looked clear, so Gwaine made a run for it. He wanted to skirt the throne room, but unless he went the long way around—the _really_ long way around—it was still in his path, so he just tread carefully. And quietly.

But a quick look inside told him Morgana wasn’t there any longer, which did nothing for his nerves.

Of course, since the room Arthur and Merlin were in didn’t have the door blasted off its hinges, Gwaine took that as a good sign. Arthur let him in at his quiet knock, though his lips tightened when he saw Gwaine didn’t have the staff.

“How’s Merlin?” Gwaine asked.

“No different,” Arthur said. 

Gwaine could read the _‘Why did you come back empty-handed?’_ easily enough. “I need to talk to him.”

“I don’t know if he can hear you.”

“Still worth a try.” Gwaine crouched by his friend, whose earlier muttering had ceased again. He didn’t seem awake, but Gwaine called, “Merlin?”

Gwaine’s only response was Merlin’s unchanged, shallow breathing.

“Merlin, that staff you had— Have you any idea where Morgana would put it?”

“It’s no use,” Arthur said. “I tried to keep him conscious, but I didn’t have any luck. We…we have to try something else.”

“Morgana’s on the prowl. We won’t have much time for anything.”

“We haven’t much time even if she weren’t,” Arthur shot back, the tightness in his voice telling Gwaine more of what the king was not saying—what he never said, really, but what they all knew: he cared about Merlin. 

Gwaine had paused long enough in Gaius’s chambers to fetch a few herbs, but his knowledge of remedies wasn’t great, for all that he’d been in a number of scrapes. Most of the time, he could just grin and bear it. But Merlin…. Merlin wasn’t about to be grinning any time soon unless they could do something.

Gwaine had a bad feeling that the sorts of things he had snatched up needed to have something specific done with them rather than just being dropped in a pot of water and forced down Merlin’s throat.

He wished Gaius were still here.

“We should at least….” Gwaine waved an arm at Merlin, who was still wearing Emrys’s red robe. “There’s no sense in making sure Morgana figures out the truth, especially not when Merlin’s done everything he can to keep her in the dark.”

“We can’t hide the blood,” Arthur muttered, but between the two of them, they managed to pull the robe off of Merlin. To Gwaine’s surprise, he was wearing his usual clothes beneath it, neckerchief tucked in his pocket.

But perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised, if Merlin had needed to pull off some quick changes.

Arthur was eyeing up the herbs Gwaine had dropped on the bed, but he clearly had little more idea than Gwaine of what to do with them. “There’ll be another healer in the lower town,” he said at last. “Gaius is the best, but Merlin isn’t the only one who has ever trained with him.”

Gwaine wished he’d paid enough attention to know precisely who this healer—or healers—actually was, but he hadn’t. Gaius or Merlin had always been there. He hadn’t needed to.

Neither had Arthur, apparently, but his implication was true: they could ask, and they’d be directed to someone a heck of a lot more qualified than either of them.

“You think we can move him again?” Gwaine asked.

Arthur’s expression hardened. “We don’t have a choice.” 

“And we just hope we don’t run into Morgana while trying to sneak out of the castle when we know she’ll be watching for us? Watching the exits?”

Arthur looked at Gwaine for a long moment. Finally, in a quiet, tired voice, “I’ll distract her. Just…make sure Merlin gets help.” As Gwaine opened his mouth to protest, Arthur poured the authority back into his voice. “See that he gets the best attention he can and that he gets it quickly. I don’t want him to….” Arthur stopped. “I expect to see him again.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take your sword.”

Gwaine knew now wasn’t the time to argue with Arthur, so he handed it over, but he did feel obliged to protest on Merlin’s behalf. “You know Merlin would be furious to think that you’re sacrificing yourself for him?”

Arthur strapped on the sword. “Merlin’s an idiot if he thinks he’s worthless. He’s the only one among us who could hope to stand against Morgana.”

Gwaine knew there was far much more to it than that, but he picked the simplest argument he could: “And what good will Merlin’s fighting have come to, if you go and get yourself killed now? He’s not the only one who can stand against Morgana.” She wouldn’t want them all dead if that were the case.

Arthur closed his eyes. “Go, Gwaine. There isn’t time for debate.”

There really wasn’t, so Gwaine stuffed the herbs back into his pocket—he was not going to take the chance that the healer just happened to be out of whatever was needed and it was something he’d managed to get from Gaius’s stores—and scooped Merlin up in his arms. Arthur opened the door for him and gestured for him to get a move on. Gwaine paused only long enough to see Arthur shoving Merlin’s red robe beneath the bed before heading for his usual passageway out of the castle. It wasn’t _the_ usual passageway—not the one the others had taken, he was sure—since that one let out farther than he was planning to go and he was fairly certain Morgana would have it guarded by now, if only by Aithusa—assuming she still trusted the beast.

Gwaine might like the dragon, as far as dragons go, but if Merlin _had_ sweet-talked her, Gwaine wasn’t sure it would mean much now. 

Gwaine wasn’t really sure it was possible to bespell a dragon—he knew they had their own magic—but if it were, he doubted it would hold when the caster was…indisposed.

And he really didn’t want to risk it.

She’d defended them, yes. She’d kept Morgana occupied so they could get away. And she’d known to heal him, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to risk trying to convince her to do the same for Merlin—especially now that he was looking like himself again, on the chance that she only knew Merlin in his guise as Emrys and couldn’t, like he rather hoped, be able to identify them as one and the same—and end up wasting time that should have been spent running to a healer or being caught by Morgana.

Worse still, he didn’t want to run the risk that Morgana, knowing _he_ knew Aithusa could heal wounds, was expecting him to go straight to the dragon and was merely using her as bait to find Emrys—and the rest of them—and finish what she had started. Whether Gwaine liked it or not, he thought that scenario more likely than Aithusa changing her loyalties again or just remaining ambivalent—especially since he was really getting the feeling that Morgana didn’t need to be in the same room as the dragon to be able to watch her.

Going out his usual way—his quick route to the tavern, that is—was risky enough, even without all the other unpleasant possibilities that his imagination was churning out, since it meant crossing the open courtyard if he wanted to get to the stables without having to contend with more twists and turns than he’d care to at this point. But he could make it from there, since if it came to it, he knew how to open the gate himself.

He had a few advantages, at least. Morgana couldn’t be everywhere at once and no one would particularly want to do anything that _wouldn’t_ help Merlin, since he was both well known and well liked. Gwaine could count on more than just Arthur’s help in this venture. And if he ran into Morgana….

Well. He’d just have to make sure he wouldn’t, because he didn’t like his odds if he did.

Gwaine heard a door slam somewhere behind him, and he hoped it was Arthur. The idea of the king acting as a distraction didn’t sit well with him, but since Gwaine knew Arthur would refuse to get Merlin to safety himself—Gwaine could do little to act as a distraction, as she had even less reason to keep him alive if he crossed paths with her—and since time was running out on them and since going to Aithusa likely meant they’d be walking into Morgana’s trap, they had no better options. 

Gwaine just prayed to every god he’d ever heard of that they would all make it through this alive, that he could get Merlin the help he needed before Morgana found them—before _anyone_ found them, as he still didn’t believe they were safe if they were observed by the castle staff.

But to Gwaine’s great dismay, they didn’t even make it through the courtyard.


	28. Chapter 28

Gwaine had thought that, under the cover of night, he and Merlin would have a chance. 

A slim one, admittedly. Gwaine had no doubt that Morgana could use some form of magic to find them—from what Merlin had implied, the fact that she didn’t know he was Emrys was the only thing that had really kept him safe—and he wasn’t so foolish as to think that no one could see them if they looked. He just hoped they wouldn’t be _immediately_ reported to Morgana, because every second that they went undetected—or at least unreported to Morgana, because she was their biggest threat at the moment and Gwaine wasn’t going to pretend she wasn’t—was another second he could use to get Merlin to safety and, hopefully, to get Merlin well again.

But of course he hadn’t counted on the dragon.

The great, big, bloody _dragon_ that landed in front of them and practically filled the entire courtyard.

Gwaine stopped mid-step, backing up in a futile attempt to get out of the dragon’s sight. But though all the torches had been extinguished on its landing, it had no trouble spotting Gwaine and the limp bundle of flesh he carried.

“Step forward, young man,” the dragon said.

Gwaine, who was trying to remember if he’d known dragons could talk— _really_ talk, in words spoken clear as day—found himself complying. He might have warmed up to Aithusa, but this dragon— _how come there was another dragon?_ —was…more intimidating. And Gwaine wasn’t easily intimidated.

But this was a dragon, and he didn’t even have a sword.

Not that he thought a sword would be particularly useful right now.

The dragon blinked at him, moonlight staining its scales silver. Gwaine hoped that the fact that he was still alive now meant that the dragon wasn’t going to eat him (because it was easily large enough to do that without any trouble) or fry him alive.

He was beginning to wonder if he’d be so lucky when the dragon snaked its great head down and its mouth hovered about three feet from Gwaine’s. 

He tried not to think about the dragon’s teeth—particularly about their sharpness and their proximity.

That became a good deal harder when the dragon opened its mouth and Gwaine found himself staring into its great maw. He was beginning to wonder if dragons had some magic in their words, for he remained rooted to the spot, and he’d never been frozen in these sorts of situations before—when succeeding (and remaining alive) had depended upon moving, at least, since he hadn’t been in this particular situation before.

Although, at the rate things were progressing, Merlin’s life was in far more danger than his, and Gwaine was sick with himself for not shifting when he should.

At the blast of warm air, Gwaine wrinkled his nose and opened his eyes, glad that he had enough sense not to drop Merlin.

That became more difficult when Merlin suddenly moved.

Gwaine stumbled, Merlin squirmed, and they both ended up on the ground next to the dragon’s forefeet—and its long, sharp claws.

Merlin groaned but sat up, blinking blearily. When he focused on Gwaine, the colour—recently returned as it was—drained from his face.

Maybe he’d finally realized he was sitting between the legs of a dragon.

Gwaine was grateful that Merlin was on his feet again—so to speak—but although the dragon might have helped them (and Gwaine wasn’t going to question why at this point), it was still _here_ , and that was too close for comfort.

“Merlin,” Gwaine said, very quietly (even though that was all for nought, since dragons undoubtedly had keener ears than humans), “we need to move.”

The words out of Merlin’s mouth weren’t the ones Gwaine had expected to hear, though he supposed they shouldn’t have surprised him in the slightest: “Where’s Arthur?”

Gwaine almost rolled his eyes. “Buying us time. Now come on.” He moved to a crouching position and held out his hand. He’d drag Merlin behind him if he had to.

“How much do you know?”

“I think all of it, Emrys, but that doesn’t matter now. Come on!” He used Merlin’s other name—was it really another name?—to prove the point, to prove that he did know and didn’t care, but it didn’t spur Merlin into action at all. He just sat there, staring at him.

Gwaine heard an odd rumbling above them and realized the dragon was laughing. Then it said, “I highly doubt you know all of it, young man.”

Merlin finally scrambled to his feet and Gwaine followed suit, eager to be away. But the dragon didn’t seem to spook Merlin. He looked a heck of a lot more comfortable than Gwaine felt. 

Merlin walked a few paces away but stopped before Gwaine had even caught up to him. He looked up at the dragon, and the dragon looked down at them—looking amused, Gwaine would imagine, if a dragon could look amused. Merlin swallowed, glanced at Gwaine, looked back at the dragon, and said, “Thank you.” He hesitated, then added, “This is Gwaine, Kilgharrah.”

The dragon snorted, but before Gwaine had worked out whether or not that had been a normal response for a dragon, it said, “Sir Gwaine. The strong one.”

Gwaine, who thought of _Percival_ as the strong one, looked at Merlin and wondered how the heck he knew the dragon. 

Merlin looked a bit more uncomfortable than before, but he was putting on a brave face Gwaine could see through only because he knew Merlin so well. “Strength and Magic,” Merlin said softly. “That’s what Grettir called us.” At Gwaine’s blank look, Merlin added, “On the bridge at the edge of the Perilous Lands, not long before he changed your sword into a flower for threatening him.”

Oh.

Right.

Gwaine definitely hadn’t remembered that that was the guardian’s name, if he’d even known it, and he couldn’t recall any mention of magic, though he had a vague memory of the guardian saying something to him about strength that hadn’t made sense. But somehow he wasn’t the least bit surprised that Merlin knew so much. “And you were Magic because you can practice it?”

“Because I was born with it.” Merlin glanced up at the dragon again as if expecting a contradiction, but the dragon didn’t give one. “My magic’s…part of me.”

“And that’s why you’re so strong?”

“Merlin.”

Gwaine and Merlin both looked immediately to the dragon—and Gwaine wished it hadn’t noticed that he’d jumped, but he had a horrible feeling it had. “Now’s not the time?” Merlin guessed. Before the dragon could even answer, he continued, “I wanted to ask you about Aithusa. How long has she been with Morgana? You told me a white dragon would bode well for Camelot, for the future!”

The dragon didn’t seem fazed by Merlin’s thinly veiled accusations. “There is time in the world yet, young warlock.”

Merlin huffed, as if such responses were usual— _how could_ any _responses be usual?_ —and turned back to Gwaine. “What’s Morgana done?”

Gwaine stared at him. “Since she stabbed you, you mean?”

“I’ll be all right.”

“But she _stabbed_ you.”

“Merlin,” the dragon said again, clearly not wanting to be ignored. Merlin looked back at it, and it continued, “You once asked me to keep out of sight from the town, yet you called me here.”

Merlin cocked his head. “I didn’t want Arthur to find out he hadn’t actually slain you. You know that. Besides, it took you a while to arrive, didn’t it? Longer than usual.”

“Merlin,” Gwaine hissed, thinking it would not be particularly healthy to anger the dragon.

Merlin ignored him, as did the dragon, who replied, “Your earlier command still weighted my wings, and you did not come to meet me as you usually do.”

Gwaine glanced at Merlin and raised his eyebrows—did he _usually_ meet a great, big dragon?—but Merlin wasn’t looking at him. “Morgana stabbed me,” he said, repeating Gwaine’s earlier words as if that explained everything. “And I still need help. Aithusa defended me against Morgana on her own once, but I’ve no idea if she’ll do so again. It’s dangerous for us both, and Morgana would have talked to her. I didn’t even really want to call you here—Aithusa’s done enough damage, and the people around here don’t have fond memories of your attack on Camelot—but I could see what Morgana was planning, and I knew I’d need the help, especially if Morgana was going to keep watch on Aithusa. But I couldn’t just tell Aithusa to find you when I don’t—”

“I understand your situation, young warlock.” 

Merlin shook his head as if in denial of the dragon’s words. “I need to be certain, Kilgharrah. I can’t just forbid Aithusa from seeing Morgana again; I know it’s not that simple. I’ve been around _you_ long enough to know it’s never that simple, because there are ways around broad commands like that. But I can’t just have Aithusa helping Morgana again. She may not, now that she knows more, but she still genuinely cares for her, and I don’t even….” He trailed off. “I still don’t even know _why_ she’s helping, but if they’re working together, Morgana might….” He shrugged helplessly.

Gwaine knew how Merlin felt. He didn’t want to lose. From what he’d understood, the last time anyone had seen Morgana before she’d turned up again here, she’d been wounded. Mortally wounded, they’d thought, and she’d come back stronger than ever.

They were having enough of a struggle trying to best her this time. If they only narrowly managed to defeat her now and she came back again, just as improved from this time as she had been from the last….

It wasn’t a pleasant prospect.

The dragon said nothing for the longest time, merely considering Merlin. “Remember what I’ve warned you about,” it said, as if it knew something they did not. It sounded ominous enough to give Gwaine a bad feeling, at any rate. “I will speak with Aithusa.”

The dragon spread its wings, and Merlin began, “Kilgharrah—”, but it took off before he could say another word, letting out a great roar that nearly rattled Gwaine’s bones and would no doubt be heard far beyond the lower town.

Gwaine looked at Merlin for a moment. “That normal?” he asked, knowing Merlin would know him well enough to know he didn’t mean the beast’s call but rather their previous conversation and its abrupt departure.

Merlin sighed wearily. “For Kilgharrah? Better than, actually. Maybe he likes you, seeing as he agreed to help so quickly.”

From Merlin’s tone, Gwaine figured they probably shouldn’t press their luck and hope for any more help from the dragon. Not unless they _really_ needed it, since it sounded like Merlin didn’t like asking either of the dragons—this one and, from what Gwaine had gathered, Aithusa—for anything unless it was absolutely necessary. He knew there was more to it all; it almost sounded like Merlin’s commands couldn’t be outright denied, if they could be completed grudgingly and not particularly well, as long as Merlin did not abuse his privilege—however he’d managed to get it—to give those commands. Still, Gwaine was just thankful that Merlin was on his feet, though as far as he was concerned, the dragon had offered them little help beyond that. “You look dead on your feet.”

Merlin shrugged and offered a weak smile that told Gwaine in no uncertain terms just how weary his friend really felt. “Guess getting stabbed takes a lot out of you.” Then, no doubt reading the concern on Gwaine’s face, he added, “I’ll be all right. Kilgharrah’s helped me through worse.”

Gwaine decided not to ask what was worse than getting stabbed and almost dying. 

Merlin turned and started back inside the castle, but Gwaine caught his arm. “Where are you going?” he asked. “We need to get out of here.”

Merlin shook his head. “I’ve got to help Arthur.”

“I promised Arthur I’d get you out of here,” Gwaine reminded him. 

Merlin snorted. “You also told me he’s being a prat and trying to sacrifice himself to Morgana so we can get away. I’m trying to protect him, Gwaine. It’s no good for me if he goes and throws all that away.” 

Gwaine chuckled. “Should’ve known you wouldn’t give up that easily.” He clapped Merlin on the back. Merlin stumbled, and Gwaine’s concern returned with full force. Merlin wasn’t nearly as well as he pretended—certainly less chipper than Gwaine had been after Aithusa had done the same for him as this other dragon had for Merlin, though Gwaine would admit he’d been putting on a bit of a front himself.

Then again, Gwaine had no idea how long he’d been out before coming to. Aithusa had been close enough that she’d have been breathing on him anyway, whether or not there was still any magic in her breath. 

“Are you strong enough to take on Morgana?” Gwaine asked quietly.

Merlin took a deep breath to steady himself and nodded. “Have to be, don’t I?” Gwaine frowned, and Merlin added, “You’re helping me, you know. Not just in the throne room or getting me out to Kilgharrah. Right now. You know the truth about me, Gwaine, and you’re not even looking at me any differently. You have no idea how much that means to me.”

If Gwaine had had any doubts about Arthur’s behaviour, that statement vanquished them. The prat. “You’re still you. All I found out is that there’s more to you than I ever saw.” Merlin grinned, and Gwaine felt obliged to put in, “Mind you, a few explanations wouldn’t go amiss. Like why you didn’t tell me earlier. Or how you know the dragon.”

“Later,” Merlin promised, still smiling broadly. He took a few more steps, and when Gwaine didn’t immediately follow him, he looked back. “Coming?”

Gwaine smirked. “I can’t very well let you go off on your own, can I?” In a few strides, he’d joined Merlin and they disappeared back inside.

He’d ask Merlin more about the dragon later. Along with a number of other things. Right now, they had more important matters to attend to.

-|-

The world around Mordred resolved itself again, and he found himself facing the white stone walls of Camelot’s castle.

It had been many years since he’d been in this particular room, but he recognized it: it had once belonged to the lady Morgana. 

From the looks of it, she’d claimed it again. He hadn’t thought, given how much she was reputed to have changed, that she’d be so sentimental. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d made remarks about the past choking her, smothering and stifling and holding her back.

He was rather glad she had returned to these particular chambers, however. It gave him hope for her. He had never liked to think of her so changed from the woman he had known.

Mordred was quick to leave Morgana’s chambers, although he wasn’t certain where to go. To Emrys would be the logical choice, of course, but Mordred wasn’t particularly keen on the meeting, for all that he wanted it. Emrys didn’t like him. Mordred doubted that had changed since they’d last crossed paths. 

Still, if he was intent on answers, better he find Emrys than Morgana.

_Emrys._

Silence.

_Emrys._

Mordred honestly didn’t know if he was being ignored, but he had little choice but to carry on anyway. And he supposed he ought to remember to call Emrys by his given name at all times, even when their conversation would go unmarked by others. He never had been wholly comfortable with the name Mordred knew him by. And as it was an easy enough thing to ensure that his voice was not overheard by Morgana, he’d not give the warlock further reason to dislike him.

_Merlin!_

Still Mordred received no response. It meant little, really. Emrys— _Merlin_ —had taken to ignoring him even when he’d been a child. Mordred was quite convinced Merlin had meant to leave him with Arthur to be caught in the tunnels, that he’d only turned up at the last possible moment because Mordred had pleaded with him. He’d been terrified that day.

He had still trusted Merlin after that, however. Perhaps not as much as before, but he hadn’t been certain that Merlin meant him ill until he’d tripped Mordred up, used his magic in an attempt to allow Uther’s men to capture him and—

But Mordred was not here to help Merlin; he was here to help Arthur, to repay the debt he owed the man who was now a king. And if he had to find Camelot’s king without Merlin’s help, then he would do so. The greatest difficulty would be avoiding the lady Morgana.

Especially since there was a part of Mordred which didn’t want to believe that she was so changed from who she had been.

The Crystal of Neahtid…. He’d learned something from that experience. He did not trust as blindly as he once had. While he had not known Alvarr’s full plan at the time, he’d learned of it afterwards. Like Alvarr, Mordred had not wanted to live in fear, to be banned from passing through Camelot. He’d found it unfair, though he’d since learned that that was the way of life. But he thought Alvarr’s actions rash.

What Morgana was doing now was little different, however. She also sought to assassinate the king, to destroy Camelot and rebuild it. Yet Mordred knew more than he’d told Guinevere, and he wasn’t so sure Morgana was giving the king the credit he was due. Arthur was not blindly following Uther’s ways. No doubt under Emrys’s—Merlin’s—guidance, he was making changes.

Surely Morgana could see that?

A deep, powerful roar reverberated through the castle walls, jarring Mordred from his thoughts. He had no doubt what creature had made it. He’d heard rumours about the survival of a couple of dragons despite the belief in Camelot that they had all been slain. He’d never seen proof of such himself until now, but he had never truly believed they were gone.

Still, that didn’t explain why they were here. He’d heard that one had allied itself with Morgana, but the stories he’d heard spoke of a small dragon. A young one, certainly not the creature that had let out such a thunderous bellow.

Mordred picked up his pace, certain that Emrys— _Merlin_ , he had to remember to call him _Merlin_ —was involved somehow. But when he rounded the corner, the person he nearly collided with was Morgana.

Mordred stumbled backwards; Morgana didn’t move. She fixed him with a searching look, studying his face. “Mordred,” she said at last. Her tone was even, holding only the faintest trace of surprise, but she hadn’t been able to completely school her expression.

Something had spooked her, and Mordred knew exactly what it had been. He doubted there was a soul around who could have anticipated the dragon’s call—with the possible exception of Merlin. “My lady,” he said, dipping his head. 

With all he had heard, Mordred had expected Morgana to look different; she didn’t. She held herself with the same regal bearing she always had, and she looked scared. Perhaps she would have done a better job of hiding it from others, but she never had with him. He’d always been able to see right through her.

She looked so little changed from the woman he remembered. It was heart-wrenching to think of what she had been driven to do.

“Mordred, you have to help me,” Morgana implored. She didn’t ask him why he was here. She didn’t ask him where he had come from, when he had even arrived. She asked him for what she needed most: his help. “Emrys is going to destroy me,” she whispered.

Mordred did not doubt the sincerity in her voice.

Despite himself, he could not doubt her claim, either.

Emrys held no more liking for him than he did for Morgana. Emrys—Merlin—would do anything for King Arthur, and Mordred had little doubt now that that included killing for him, if he deemed it necessary. 

And he would see Morgana’s death as necessary.

Mordred swallowed the vile taste that rose in his throat. “Emrys will protect Arthur to his last breath.”

Morgana stared at him for a moment longer. “And you?” she asked, her tone bitter. “Have you come to betray me as well?”

“Of course not, my lady,” Mordred said, the words spilling out of his mouth on their own accord. He hesitated, then admitted, “But I owe Arthur a debt, for he once saved my life as did you.”

Morgana’s mouth twisted. “You owe him nothing,” she spat. “Arthur may have saved you once, but he has hunted you down far more often. Do not think he has changed his ways. He seeks to fool you all.”

Mordred shifted on his feet. “Arthur does not appear to be his father. He is making allowances Uther would never permit.”

“Mordred,” Morgana repeated, “you do not have the connection with this kingdom that I do, but surely you understand what I seek to do? I wish to bring magic back to Camelot. That will never happen under Arthur’s reign, however many _allowances_ he makes to appease your people.”

Morgana’s words were said with such scorn that Mordred was beginning to see how she had changed. “Arthur is the Once and Future King, Morgana,” he said. “He is meant to reign, to be a great king. Emrys will make sure of that. I’ve known the stories since my childhood.”

Morgana’s eyes narrowed. “Do you also know Emrys, then?” Mordred couldn’t find his tongue, and she continued, “And do you have enough faith in your childhood stories to condemn me to my death by keeping your silence? I never thought I would meet my fate after being turned away by you, Mordred. I thought….” Her voice hitched, and Mordred’s heart caught because she sounded so _broken_ , and he had never heard her sound that way. “I thought you felt as I did, that we sought the same and would never need to work against each other.”

“I do not mean to,” Mordred said, for he had no more wish to see Morgana dead than Arthur; both had helped him when he’d needed it, and neither had yet betrayed him. “But what you seek to do, Morgana— Do you not see? Emrys wishes for the same! Magic _will_ be brought back to Camelot.”

“Have you already forgotten how Arthur has hunted you down?” Morgana demanded. “Mordred, magic can _never_ flourish under his rule. Perhaps _Emrys_ —” and she said the name with such a sneer that Mordred wondered if she had any respect for him at all, though she must if she’d feared him so “—is trying to guide Arthur, but he cares little for the likes of us. He did not help me when I needed it most, when I was desperately trying to understand my own power, and he did not help you when you needed him.”

Mordred said nothing, for Morgana wasn’t really wrong; all the help Merlin had given him in the past would have counted for nothing if the warlock had succeeded in seeing Mordred captured by the king’s men. 

Morgana snorted derisively and added, “And the boy, Merlin. He is nothing next to us, yet _he_ is the one Emrys favours.” Morgana saw Mordred’s wide eyes and misinterpreted the root of his surprise. “Yes, the fool has a small amount of magic. Imagine, one of Arthur’s most loyal servants—a sorcerer!”

_Warlock._ But Mordred did not correct her now, either.

“He works in vain if he believes Arthur will forgive him so easily,” Morgana continued. “Arthur won’t look at him the same way once he knows the truth. Past loyalty counts for nothing. You will fair no better, Mordred, now that you have grown into your magic. Arthur will turn you away, refuse any help you might give him, because he sees you as tainted with magic.”

“He may have changed, Morgana, under Emrys’s watch.”

“Arthur will never change,” Morgana spat. “You are a fool to believe otherwise. Even Emrys cannot know my brother as well as I. If Arthur were ever willing to accept magic, then we would not stand where we do now.”

“But if he were willing?”

“He isn’t. And it’s a pity we’ll never know how things might have been if he were.” The words were said with such venom that Mordred doubted Morgana lamented Arthur’s stubbornness as much as she pretended. “Choose who you stand with, Mordred, and choose well. You’ll not have a chance to change your mind.”

Morgana swept past him, confident either that he wouldn’t attack or in her own skill if he did.

Mordred opened his mouth before he realized what he was doing and said, “That was a dragon, you know.”

Morgana stopped and turned back to him, though she made no move to rejoin him. “Yes,” she agreed, her voice drained of its hatred and leaving her again sounding helpless, broken. “And it wasn’t Aithusa. I know all her calls. This one….” Morgana hesitated. “It wasn’t her.”

Mordred wondered if Morgana suspected what he did, if she wondered if the call had come from the last great dragon that Uther had kept imprisoned beneath Camelot. Since its escape, the tale had circulated, reaching even the ears of the Druids.

But not all of the Druids had been convinced Arthur could slay the dragon so easily, even those who had come to believe that he was the Once and Future King.

But even if it were, one thing certainly did not make sense: the dragon would never help Camelot. Dragons rarely allied themselves with anyone. That Morgana had forged an alliance with the one she called Aithusa was surprising enough. But for another dragon to come to Camelot?

Mordred would never have expected it.

And Morgana…. Morgana clearly hadn’t expected such a thing, either. Yet Mordred didn’t need to ask her to know that she believed Emrys was behind it. He could understand why she felt that way, of course; Merlin was the only one who had the power to oppose her, the only one who had consistently worked against her. 

But dragons…. Mordred hadn’t thought even Emrys could control dragons. Of all the times he’d met Merlin, Mordred had never sensed that power within him. It was a rare, distinctive power, ancient and misunderstood, even among the Druids. Mordred had always felt Merlin’s power. He’d recognized him as Emrys because of it. But he did not think him capable of this.

Dragons were not easily controlled. They were fiercely independent creatures, fickle more often than not—at least in their dealings with humans—and rarely fond of action that did not benefit them. Those who had dared to seek their counsel in the past were met with riddles.

Well, riddles or flames.

But then Uther had sought to slay all the dragons and wipe magic from the land. He’d imprisoned the last dragon as a prize. Mordred’s people had withdrawn into the shadows. Sorcerers foolish enough to blatantly stand against Uther had met their deaths. It had been a bleak time.

By the time Mordred had truly begun paying attention, the whispers of Emrys had been plentiful. The thought that the sorcerer had come at last had brought hope, been a light in the darkness. Mordred had been eager to listen to the stories of what Emrys would do. He’d been thrilled when Emrys had helped him.

And he’d been crushed when Emrys had betrayed him, hurt beyond measure that Emrys had turned on him without due reason.

_“I shall never forgive this, Emrys,”_ Mordred had vowed, _“and I shall never forget.”_

He wanted to know Merlin’s reasoning, if there was any to be had. He wanted to understand. He would never forget. He doubted, at this point, that he could forgive. But he needed to know.

Morgana had told him to choose his side and to choose well, but he could not do so until he spoke with Merlin.

“Emrys has many secrets,” Morgana said softly. “I fear my ignorance of them will be my undoing, yet I will fight to my last breath. I do not want to see any harm come to you, Mordred, but if you stand against me, I will not hold back. I cannot afford any weakness.” She held his gaze for a moment longer, and then she turned away again.

Mordred watched her go, his thoughts churning.


	29. Chapter 29

Merlin paused for a moment once they were back in the castle. Morgana might know he had magic, but she didn’t think he was Emrys—not yet, anyway—and he wasn’t about to make it easy for her to find out. Which meant he needed to get rid of the blood that stained him, if not Gwaine. “ _Fordwin wamm_ ,” he murmured, watching the blood vanish from them both. Then, since he wasn’t about to take the time to properly mend the jagged hole in his clothes the usual way, “ _Gestrice_.”

Gwaine stared at him—or, perhaps more accurately, at his clean tunic which had just knit itself together. “I’d never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it,” he admitted.

“You weren’t supposed to,” Merlin said softly. He leaned against the wall for support, not willing to let Gwaine see how unsteady he felt on his feet. The spells he’d just used were small, simple ones, yet it felt as if he’d tried to shake the earth itself. 

His magic had burst past Morgana’s curse and exploded out of him, snapping the binds of her other spell, but it had been too late to deflect her sword, and…. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time his magic had turned inward and tried to heal him, whether or not he was muttering words to a spell. And, even if Kilgharrah had healed him, he was weak, his body _and_ his magic exhausted.

He knew Gwaine had realized that, even if he hadn’t outright admitted it, but there was no helping that. He hadn’t been focused on putting on a brave face. He’d been trying to convince Kilgharrah to help him in some way beyond just spouting _words_ —without forcing him to it, as he had done when he’d commanded Kilgharrah’s presence in the first place. 

He was worried enough about giving Aithusa a command she’d want to fight. It didn’t matter that she’d have to follow the essence of his command; he was worried about how she could choose to interpret it if he wasn’t careful. And he didn’t want to push his luck with Kilgharrah, who would have that much more experience getting around them. He certainly knew how to use words to manipulate Merlin. But at least Kilgharrah genuinely seemed to want to help, and keeping Aithusa away from Morgana would be help enough. Besides, the dragons deserved to be treated with respect. Merlin knew his father had commanded Kilgharrah’s respect, had won his trust, and he suspected—though he did not know for certain—that having that respect and trust that the bond between dragon and Dragonlord would not be abused was integral to the magic of being a Dragonlord.

He’d certainly sensed enough shame in his father for that to be the case, for him to forever regret his unwitting betrayal of Kilgharrah’s trust.

Truthfully, Merlin didn’t fancy his chances if he faced Morgana right now, but he _couldn’t_ leave Arthur on his own. If they could just find Arthur, and he and Gwaine could get out…. Merlin was willing to play a game of cat-and-mouse with Morgana until he was well enough to beat her, even if it meant he was the mouse.

Merlin _almost_ wanted to tell Morgana the truth just to see her reaction, but he wasn’t foolish enough to risk that now. Letting her believe the lie—that he was just Merlin, even if she now knew he had magic—was the only thing that maintained everything, that kept her from killing him now and moving on to Arthur and Gwaine and everyone else who dared to oppose her without fear of being stopped.

Kilgharrah had said he’d talk to Aithusa, and Merlin hoped that meant Aithusa could be convinced to sever her ties with Morgana, but Merlin wasn’t going to count on it. He needed to stop depending on Kilgharrah. Some things he had to do on his own—or at least mostly on his own—and this was one of them.

He was a little bit unnerved by Kilgharrah’s reminder, however. _“Remember what I’ve warned you about.”_ Kilgharrah had warned him about many things over the years, none of them good, though Merlin supposed he wouldn’t have needed a warning if it _was_ good. But still. Being told to remember all the awful things Kilgharrah had said would come to pass? 

Merlin had a feeling he wouldn’t like the reason Kilgharrah had chosen to draw his attention to it now.

“I can scout ahead,” Gwaine offered. “Find Arthur, direct him to you.” 

Merlin shook his head. “No, I can keep going.” _I have to._ “Besides, if we find Arthur, _you’re_ leaving.”

“Merlin, you can’t face her on your own.”

“I won’t be on my own,” Merlin argued, even though his heart wasn’t really in it. “Kilgharrah’s on my side.” If he wasn’t on his own side; Merlin really wasn’t sure anymore, given where following Kilgharrah’s advice had gotten him. But the fact that he always seemed to be _right_ was unnerving enough that Merlin knew better than to discount the dragon’s words. “Arthur’s in more danger than I am. _He’s_ the one Morgana _really_ wants to kill. And if she finds him before we do….”

Gwaine frowned, but he didn’t argue. “Are you well enough to keep moving?”

Merlin nodded, but he stayed against the wall for a few precious seconds longer. “You don’t….” He trailed off, then decided Gwaine was about the only one he _could_ ask. “You don’t happen to know where my staff went, do you?”

From the look on Gwaine’s face, he was still trying to reconcile _Merlin_ and _eighty-year-old-sorcerer-known-as-Emrys_. “I looked for it,” he said, “when you were…resting. I didn’t find it. Morgana hid it somewhere I didn’t check, I guess.”

Merlin pulled a face. “She’d know enough not to just leave it anywhere. It’s a Sidhe staff; it’s _valuable_. Wherever she put it, it would have to be somewhere she didn’t think anyone else was going to go.”

Gwaine looked like he was going to ask Merlin where he’d gotten such a thing before changing his mind. Merlin had seen a similar expression on Arthur’s face often enough to know what it was. “I checked everywhere I could think of. Everywhere logical, I mean. I didn’t have time to go through every room.”

Merlin thought for a moment. He didn’t doubt Gwaine, of course, but there was a chance…. “Did you check the great hall?”

Gwaine’s expression told Merlin he hadn’t before he’d even opened his mouth. “Why would it be in there?”

“That’s where she’s feeding Aithusa,” Merlin answered. “No one’s going to venture in there while it might be occupied by a dragon. Come on; let’s check. We might run into Arthur.”

Merlin started off, but he wasn’t quite far enough ahead to not hear Gwaine’s muttered words: “You need it, don’t you? To beat her. Because you’re not nearly as recovered as you’re pretending.”

Merlin didn’t dare tell Gwaine quite how right he was.

-|-

Arthur hadn’t found Morgana, and he was still trying to figure out whether or not he was thankful for that. While he didn’t _want_ to meet his half-sister with only a sword—not that having it would do much good if past experience was anything to go by—he had considerably less desire for her to find Gwaine and Merlin. Because Arthur…. He was depending on Merlin much more than he had any right to, given how he’d treated the warlock these past few weeks.

But better he open his eyes now than never. Arthur didn’t want to think how things would have been otherwise. Well, in truth, he didn’t _have_ to think to know what it would have been like. He’d already started down that path, and he hadn’t liked it.

This…. This was harder. But it was better, he was sure.

It had to be.

Besides, if he got through this, and Gwaine got Merlin to safety, then Merlin could finish explaining everything. And Arthur might know why he had a horribly certain feeling that Aithusa wasn’t the only dragon in Camelot any longer.

He still had the occasional nightmare about the Great Dragon’s siege, for all that he wouldn’t admit that to anyone else. He wasn’t going to forget a moment of it. The sight, the stench, the sound….

But he’d killed that dragon. It had to be a different one. Even though there weren’t supposed to be _any_ dragons alive any longer.

Morgana hadn’t been in the throne room any longer when he’d finally gone to look. Neither had the dragon, for which Arthur was frankly grateful. But he hadn’t come across either of them, even though he’d made a point of wandering around where he expected Morgana would look for him.

Since he hadn’t crossed paths with her yet, he had the terrible feeling that someone else had.

And Gwaine and Merlin were the only ones who would hold her up.

Merlin would insist that Arthur take this opportunity to save himself. _“You have to,”_ he’d say. _“You’re King Arthur of Camelot.”_

Merlin still didn’t seem to understand that it was for that very reason that Arthur couldn’t, in good conscience, run away.

Or at least he wouldn’t understand, if he were here to argue.

And a part of Arthur really wished he were, because Merlin…. Merlin had always been by his side, whenever it had mattered. Even when Arthur had called him a fool for coming, even when Arthur had sent him away or forbidden him to come, he’d always stood by Arthur’s side—even when Arthur had thought it impossible, as when Arthur had sent him back to Camelot in Lancelot’s care after Merlin had thrown himself in front of the Dorocha.

Arthur had done much the same with Gwaine now, placing Merlin in the knight’s care, but there wasn’t time for Merlin to make a miraculous recovery.

Arthur was on his own.

Arthur turned and raced toward the tunnels that were their usual escape route. He didn’t think Gwaine and Merlin had actually gone that way, but if Morgana thought they had….

Well, she hadn’t been anywhere else Arthur had looked, although he suspected that was because they were both moving.

Arthur barely slowed his sprint as he rounded the next corner, and he soon regretted it when the next second found him lying in a tangle of limbs on cold stone.

“My apologies,” said the man he’d barrelled into as he extricated himself and held out a hand to help Arthur up.

Arthur took it, giving the man—well, now that he got a better look at him, still almost more of a boy—a hard look. He looked vaguely familiar, but Arthur couldn’t place him.

“Mordred,” the boy added.

Mordred. “The Druid boy?” Arthur blurted. Last he’d heard of him, Merlin had claimed that Mordred was part of the group who had stolen the Crystal of Neahtid. As Alvarr had confessed to acting alone in that venture, Arthur had put it out of his mind.

But he had a much more difficult time doing that now.

Still, that had been years ago. Mordred had been young, impressionable. He could have been misguided.

Although none of that explained why he was here, now.

Mordred smiled. “The very same. I…. I initially came to thank you, on behalf of my people, for your recent rulings.”

His amendments regarding the Druids had been the furthest thing from Arthur’s mind, but they had played a substantial part in making the current situation what it was. “And now?” Arthur asked.

Mordred hesitated. “You once saved my life. I sought to repay that favour.”

_Sought_ , not _seek_. Arthur wondered if that was a simple slip of the tongue or if Mordred had already been swayed to Morgana’s side.

Arthur might not have seen Mordred use magic, but he had no doubt the boy had it.

“And, if I may…. I wish to speak with Emrys.”

Arthur shook his head. “He’s not here.”

“I spoke with Guinevere,” Mordred said softly, “and I suspect you know his true identity, even if she does not. And I…. I need to speak with him.”

“He’s not here,” Arthur repeated. “Morgana…. For all I know, she’s succeeded in….” He shook his head. “One of my knights has taken him to get help. I meant to distract Morgana so they could get away, but I haven’t _found_ her.”

“You would run to meet your death?”

Arthur’s expression turned grim. “Always, if it means protecting my people.”

“And leave them without their leader?”

“Guinevere is a great queen,” Arthur said. “I have full confidence in her.” Something his people did not now have in him, although Arthur suspected Mordred had surmised that. 

“So you believe you have done all that you were destined to do.”

It was not so much a question as a statement, and Arthur bristled. “I don’t care for talk of destiny,” he answered tartly. “The future is what we make it, not whatever stories people believe will come to pass.”

“They are not just stories,” Mordred argued. “Emrys is not a story.”

Arthur closed his eyes. He didn’t have _time_ for this right now. But Mordred must have a point, and he could surely find a way to make Arthur listen if he tried to ignore him. It was best to remain civil. “No,” Arthur agreed, opening his eyes again. “He’s a fool. As are you, if you put such stock in those tales.”

“Then you would blindly accept that your time has passed until you’re to be called back?”

“I…what?” 

There was a smile on Mordred’s face now, small but distinct. “You are the Once and Future King, Arthur. It is not a title given lightly, and it is yours alone to bear. What did you think it meant?”

“I…. Nothing,” Arthur finally admitted. “It didn’t think it meant anything.”

“My people are very careful, sire,” Mordred said quietly. “Such things never mean nothing.”

“I….” Arthur shook his head, the thought there and gone before he’d even had a chance to properly grasp at it. “And what of Morgana, then? What do the stories say about her?”

Mordred’s smile vanished. “I was never told anything about her.”

“So you didn’t know she would become…this?” Arthur waved a hand around him, letting the motion encompass everything words could not. _This_ was not the way the castle was supposed to be. _This_ was not how Camelot should be ruled. _This_ was not _right_ , yet _this_ was _Morgana_.

“The only things I know about the lady Morgana,” Mordred continued, ignoring Arthur’s last question, “were from tales I heard when I was not supposed to be listening. She has a destiny as well, Arthur, much as you yourself do. As Emrys does.”

“And she’s going to kill me? Is that what you’ve been trying to tell me?” If it was, it certainly wasn’t news to Arthur. “That she’s going to kill me, find a way to get rid of Gwen, and rule Camelot undisputed?”

“Morgana’s destiny is to bring back the old ways.”

The declaration threw Arthur. “She…what?” It wasn’t something that _should_ surprise him. Morgana had been trying to take the throne and restore magic to Camelot for years. But…. “Then why attack me when I made it clear I intend to do that? Restore magic?”

“Because whatever your way, it will not be the old ways. It will forge an entirely different path.”

Arthur stared at Mordred for a few seconds. “Why are you telling me this?” he finally asked.

“You need to understand,” Mordred said simply. “I cannot save your life if you intend to give it, so I am telling you what I suspect Emrys has not. These aren’t just stories, Arthur Pendragon. They’re words of prophecy, threads of destiny that have been strung out and are being played upon right now. So know this: your story will not end here, no matter what happens, but I cannot say when it will continue again.”

Arthur frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Mordred’s smile returned. “You say the future is what you make it to be. Then make it, King Arthur of Camelot. Spin out your own story. But do not be surprised if it still resembles what I’ve told you, in the end.”

Mordred inclined his head and moved to walk by, but Arthur stopped him. “Where are you going?”

“I need to speak with Emrys,” Mordred repeated. He hesitated, then added, “Since I have told you what he has not, will you consider my debt to you paid?”

Arthur blinked. “I…of course, yes. I never thought you were indebted to me, Mordred. I don’t see why you did.”

“You saved my life, the first time I came here,” Mordred reminded him quietly. “It is possible my knowledge will save yours. You may make different choices now that you know what Emrys sought to keep from you.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t argue with Mordred even though he was fairly certain Merlin didn’t know everything Mordred had just told him. He much preferred getting clarification on the more pressing issue. “So is Morgana _not_ meant to kill me, if I can find a way to appease her and allow her to fulfill her destiny without such bloodshed?”

“I do not know,” admitted Mordred. “Morgana is a wild spirit, and she has no love for you. I only know that attempts to change prophecies have always ended in failure, for what was foretold will come to pass, one way or another.”

“You mean we could set it in motion ourselves by trying to prevent it?”

“I mean there are many paths to the same end, and I do not know which one we walk now. Morgana was gifted with the sight of the future, not I.”

“Her nightmares,” Arthur whispered, releasing Mordred’s arm at last. 

“She always had very powerful magic. She just didn’t allow herself to see it.” Mordred inclined his head again and moved away, and this time Arthur didn’t stop him.

-|-

Merlin was fairly far from all right, as far as Gwaine was concerned, but he had strength enough to put on a good show.

Whether or not it was a good _enough_ show for Morgana remained to be seen.

Still, they made it to the great hall with no trouble. Aithusa was still there, but she didn’t attack them on sight, so Gwaine took that to mean Morgana hadn’t managed to turn her against them again. Merlin said a few words to Aithusa when they were nearer which Gwaine didn’t quite catch, but he heard enough to know that they had the same lilt as the ones he’d used back in the throne room—the ones which, as far Gwaine could tell, weren’t for regular spells.

If Gwaine had to guess, he’d say Merlin could talk to dragons in some sort of dragon-language. Although considering dragons—or at least the other dragon—could understand and speak _their_ language, Gwaine wasn’t sure what was so special about this one. Still, he figured the dragons appreciated being spoken to in their mother tongue. If that’s what it was.

He’d have to ask, assuming they lived through the night.

Because, really, when would Merlin have learned to speak with _dragons_?

Gwaine didn’t quite register that Merlin had moved until he was standing in front of him. He was wearing his usual grin, effectively hiding his strain, and leaning a bit more heavily than Gwaine would like on the staff. He was also holding out Arthur’s sword, which Gwaine took—for all the good it might do him against Morgana.

“Aithusa was guarding it,” Merlin said cheerfully as Gwaine strapped the sword in place, “but she didn’t mind me getting it back. I didn’t think she would; she knew enough not to seek me out before and lead Morgana to me, so she is trying to help.”

“And…the other dragon?”

“Kilgharrah,” Merlin supplied. “He’ll meet her outside of town. Any moment now, I expect. From what I can tell, she was just waiting so she could bring some food along, and she’s got some now.”

“I noticed,” Gwaine said, grimacing in the direction of what looked like the remains of a freshly mauled boar.

Merlin gave a good-natured shrug and started off, looking steadier on his feet now that he was using the staff as additional support. “At least you won’t be scrubbing the floors clean. But it’s better that they’re there. They’ll be far enough away not to arouse more suspicion but near enough if I need to call for help.”

“If they’ll come.”

“They’ll come.”

“And you think you’ll need help, then? Their help, I mean?”

“I hope not.” Merlin’s face darkened. “I was hoping to keep Aithusa away from Morgana from now on. Kilgharrah, too. I don’t want to give her any more clues.”

Gwaine frowned. “How is that a clue?”

Merlin said nothing for the longest time. Finally, “Serkets.”

Gwaine’s eyebrows shot up, dozens of possibilities—each more unbelievable than the last—springing to mind. “Serkets?” he repeated.

“And spelled chains. Long story, really. But it’s something she knows I couldn’t have gotten out of without help. She might think it was due to Emrys now, but she’ll eventually….” Merlin’s voice faltered, and he stopped. 

Gwaine followed his gaze but saw nothing but the empty corridor stretching in front of him. “Merlin?”

“This way,” he said, abruptly snatching Gwaine’s arm and pulling him with surprising force into the nearest servants’ passage and nearly dragging him up the stairs.

“Where are we going?”

Merlin didn’t pause to look back. “You? You’re going to see Arthur, and you’re going to get the prat out of here before it’s too late.” They reached a landing, and Merlin practically shoved Gwaine out the door. “He’s not far from his chambers, headed for the main stairway. If you’re quick, you can catch him before he gets there.”

“How do you _know_ that?” Gwaine asked. He’d resolved to ask questions later, yes, but this was…a little bit unnerving, to be perfectly honest. Even if it _was_ just Merlin.

Merlin’s face was solemn. “Mordred told me.”

As much as Gwaine wanted to ask _how_ —again—he could guess it all came down to magic. So he settled on the next important question: “Who’s—?”

“It doesn’t _matter_ ,” Merlin said fiercely. “Just go. I’ve…. I need to meet with Mordred.” Merlin didn’t sound thrilled by this prospect.

“Are you sure you want to go by yourself?” Gwaine might not know who Mordred was, but if there was some sort of magical communication going on, it wasn’t hard to guess that he was a sorcerer. And Merlin’s face made it clear enough that he wasn’t necessarily a _friendly_ sorcerer—or, at the very least, not necessarily a friend. 

“You need to catch Arthur,” Merlin repeated firmly, giving him another shove. “I’ll be fine.” And before Gwaine could protest further, Merlin heaved the doorway closed and Gwaine could hear his footsteps retreating, echoing down the hidden steps.

Gwaine turned and ran to (hopefully) intercept Arthur. Merlin had said nothing of Morgana’s whereabouts, and he didn’t want to risk her finding the king first. He might not be able to do anything to hinder her, but that wasn’t going to stop him from trying.

He did catch up to the king before Morgana, thankfully, and a shout stopped Arthur from going any farther. When Gwaine drew alongside him, intending to ask him who Mordred was—surely he would know?—Arthur got out the first question: “Where’s Merlin?”

“Somewhere below us. He’s fine. Mostly. The dragon…helped him.” Gwaine waited a beat to catch his breath, then asked, “Who’s Mordred?”

Arthur blinked. “A Druid boy. How did you know he was here?” He didn’t question Gwaine about the dragon—he probably assumed Gwaine meant Aithusa—but that was just as well, as there wasn’t really time to explain all that right now.

“Merlin said something about needing to talk to him and then told me where to find you. He wants me to get you out of here.”

Arthur snorted. “Not without him.”

Gwaine had expected this response. “You know what he’d say to that.”

“And _he_ should know what _I’m_ saying to it. And since I’m the king, _he_ has to listen to _me_.”

“Even though—?”

Gwaine didn’t even have to finish the thought. “Yes,” Arthur ground out. He eyed Gwaine’s waist for a moment and then added pointedly, “And I’ll have my sword back.”

Gwaine grinned but readily swapped weapons with Arthur. “Didn’t even get a chance to use it,” he acknowledged ruefully. “Suppose that really does mean it’s meant only for you?”

“If Merlin’s bedtime stories have any truth to them,” Arthur muttered.

“Which they might,” Gwaine murmured. 

Arthur ignored him. “Come,” he said, starting down the stairs. Gwaine followed. “We must find Morgana before she finds Merlin.”

“She doesn’t know who he is.”

“No,” Arthur agreed, “but Mordred does, and I cannot sure of his loyalties. Even if he does not mean to betray us, a slip of the tongue is all it would take.”

“This Mordred. Who is he? He’s more than just a Druid boy.”

“He was here before. It’s been nigh on seven years now, I think, since we last crossed paths.” Arthur was silent for a moment. “The first time, he was a scared young boy, and Morgana and Merlin—and later I—hid him from my father. The second time….” Arthur trailed off. “It was on less pleasant terms, and Morgana’s hatred for Camelot was solidified, no doubt, by the events which transpired. I thought….” Arthur raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what I thought. I’m not sure what to think now. I’m fairly sure what I once believed is not the truth.”

“But Merlin doesn’t like him.”

Arthur said nothing. Finally, “Did he say that?”

“He didn’t have to.”

“He’s been involved with Morgana before. I suppose Merlin has a healthy suspicion of anyone who has ever gotten along well with her and her magic. He doesn’t seem to have malicious intent, but I can’t….” Arthur grunted. “I can’t get a good read on him right now. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. The Druids are all like that, able to school their faces and hide their thoughts and stare at you as if they can see inside to your very soul.”

“He unnerves you.”

“He’d unnerve anyone.” Arthur’s voice was defensive now. “But that’s not the point. The point is, I can’t trust him. Especially not if Merlin doesn’t. Yet I can’t assume that he’s working with Morgana when I’ve seen no evidence of that. We’ll just have to play it by ear.”

“Like usual, then.”

“What’s become usual,” Arthur allowed reluctantly. “I just wish I knew more.”

Gwaine snorted. “Don’t we all.” 

But better they suffer a few secrets and a few lies, he supposed, than have the whole truth out in the harsh light where it could not be defended—or, in this case, where it would no longer be able to defend _them_. 

Merlin’s double-faced game had bought them time they otherwise might not have had, for if Morgana had known to target him right from the very beginning…. It would have been quite different indeed.

And when the truth _did_ come out….

Gwaine grimaced; he knew, on many levels, why Merlin had endeavoured to keep it a secret. As Arthur had said, Merlin had sought to protect them all by keeping his secrets. But what was at stake wasn’t just what threatened to befall them if they lost Merlin’s protection; it was that, once the truth _was_ revealed—even if just to a small, select group—things would change.

They had already changed, really. Arthur’s revelation had no doubt spurred him into making the changes he had. The familiar pattern of Camelot had been altered subtly, but if Merlin’s secret came out to too many people all at once….

It would forever break the pattern.

Secrets and lies preserved what truths would shatter. Gwaine knew that only too well, with the life he had led. And he was also well familiar with this particular feeling, the feeling of standing on the edge, knowing a breaking point was near.

What he did not know was when they would reach that shatter point—or what would happen once they did.


	30. Chapter 30

Mordred was waiting for him by the time Merlin got to the throne room.

“What are you doing here?” Merlin asked, his voice sounding hollow even to his own ears.

“I needed to talk to you.” Mordred’s voice didn’t betray his thoughts, and as Merlin got closer, he realized Mordred’s face was a mask, too.

Years had passed, but Merlin was feeling no different than he had been the last time he’d seen Mordred. He felt _dread_. Because of what Mordred was meant to do, and because Merlin had effectively ensured he _would_ , if the last look Merlin had seen from Mordred was anything to go by.

This was all his fault.

If he’d listened to Kilgharrah—or not listened to him at all, perhaps, although the Great Dragon was practically the only reason he hadn’t just given up on Arthur in the beginning—then this wouldn’t be quite as difficult as it was going to be.

How come things always went better when he _didn’t_ know the future? 

“So you came here?” Merlin asked. “Now? When Morgana’s—” He broke off, not wanting to finish that thought. _Mordred and Morgana, united in evil_ ….

“I came to Camelot with two others,” Mordred acknowledged. “When we learned of the present situation, I continued alone.”

“Why?”

Mordred donned a small smile, and Merlin couldn’t be sure it was genuine. “Because I needed to talk to you.”

“And Morgana? Have you talked to her?”

Mordred looked at him for a long time. Then, “You’re afraid of what I’ll do with my knowledge.”

“If you tell her,” Merlin said quietly, “then it will all have been for nothing.” At the very least, his secret was one last thing he had to use against Morgana. But if she discovered the truth, if Mordred _told_ her, and she acted on that knowledge—if they both did, the two of them, together, her and Mordred—then he might not…. He might not be able to stop them. “Albion will not stand united without Arthur, and Camelot will crumble under Morgana.” He wished he could envision Gwen as a threat, but the one she posed was slight without protection. Morgana was a High Priestess, after all, and she’d killed more than enough folk who couldn’t protect themselves from her magic.

_I didn’t come to tell her, Emrys. I came to speak with you._

Merlin took a slow breath. He was jumping to conclusions, and look how well that had served Arthur of late. “Then speak.”

“The last time we met,” Mordred said frankly, “you tried to have me killed.”

Merlin winced. “Just…captured,” he muttered.

“There would have been no difference.”

Merlin didn’t try to argue. He couldn’t. But neither could he honestly apologize, for he wasn’t _completely_ sorry. He felt awful about it, but as long as Mordred had breath in his body, he was a threat to Arthur. Would he have been happy if Mordred _had_ been captured that day? No.

But he wouldn’t have worried about him after that, either.

“I’m not proud of my actions,” Merlin said instead, “but—”

“Do you regret them?” The look on Merlin’s face must have been answer enough, for Mordred’s expression became even more closed than before. “So I’m not mistaken in thinking you would have happily seen me dead.”

“Not happily,” Merlin said, for it was the only correction he could make.

“Why?”

Somehow, _because Kilgharrah told me we’re all better off if you’re dead_ sounded like a horrible answer—especially since there had been many days when Merlin had suspected he would have been far better off knowing nothing on the subject at all. Instead, Merlin went with the nicer version: “I need to protect Arthur.”

“I have no quarrel with Arthur!” Mordred burst out, his mask falling at last. “I never did.”

“Even though, when you first crossed his path, he was intent on finding you and turning you over to his father?” It was a stretch, Merlin knew, but surely there would have been some inkling of the black future ahead back then. He didn’t want to think that he was solely responsible for it coming true when all he’d tried to do was prevent it.

“Arthur helped me,” Mordred said bluntly. “You turned your back on me, for reasons I still don’t understand.”

The explanation Merlin couldn’t bring himself to give loomed before him, and he was suddenly—horribly—reminded of an exchange between Gwen and Morgana.

_“What did I do to make you hate me so much?”_

_“It’s not what you did; it’s what you’re destined to do! And I’m sorry, Gwen, but I can never let that happen!”_

He’d not heard it all himself, but Gwen had filled him in, anxious to dissect the words and discover the truth. He’d known then what they’d meant, and it hadn’t been terribly long before Gwen had found out for herself. But he hadn’t been able to tell her. Morgana hated her because Gwen was destined to take the throne Morgana thought her own.

Merlin was wary of Mordred because he was destined to kill Arthur.

Merlin had felt like a pawn before, but the parallels were not lost on him and now they made him feel sick.

The weariness of the last couple of days rushed back into Merlin all at once. He closed his eyes and steadied himself with the staff. His excuses, he knew, were arguably weak—but the Druids put so much stock in prophecies that if any would understand why he had done what he had, it was Mordred. 

That didn’t make telling him any easier, though, and Merlin wasn’t particularly keen on it.

Knowing the future was a burden he was really wishing he didn’t have to carry, and he unfortunately knew from experience that trying to avoid that future never seemed to work.

Which meant, really, that Mordred was going to kill Arthur—somehow, some day, in some way be responsible for Arthur’s death if Arthur was to die by his hand—whether or not Merlin told him.

Unless Merlin stopped him.

But doing so now would be foolish, for he wasn’t certain he had the strength to best Mordred, and if he failed, Mordred’s fate would be sealed by what he would see as an unprovoked attack on Merlin’s part.

And if Mordred retaliated, he might just manage to do what Morgana had failed to accomplish so far, and they’d stand united by sharing common enemies, if nothing else. The day of which Kilgharrah had warned him would be realized.

“You must have a reason,” Mordred said quietly. “You helped me before. You were kind to me. Why suddenly want me dead?”

Merlin couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t let the prophesied future unfold now, but Mordred wasn’t going to leave without answers and, maybe, if he knew….

It had to be better to talk to him, to tell him the truth, even if it wasn’t….

Merlin took a slow breath, released it, and still couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes and face Mordred. “I need to protect Arthur,” he repeated softly. “Even if I….” His voice caught, and Merlin opened his eyes. “Even if I don’t want to do something, even if I hate the very thought of it, I have see Arthur fulfill his destiny. Morgana would see a different future, and I must do everything in my power to prevent her from realizing it.”

Mordred frowned. “But I’m not stopping you from doing that. I’ve had no dealings with Morgana since—”

“Since the time you convinced her to steal the Crystal of Neahtid,” Merlin finished. 

Mordred looked at him reproachfully. “I was young and still searching for a protector, for a purpose. You would condemn me for being misled, for making a mistake?”

“No.” Merlin gripped the staff harder, skin stretching tightly over knuckles to show yellow-white bone beneath. “But I am bound to my destiny, as we all are.”

Mordred’s brow furrowed, and Merlin could see his next words—a half thought-out protest—forming on his lips. The mask had fallen away completely now, and Merlin saw the precise moment confusion melted into understanding—and from there, into denial. 

But prophecies—and the destinies they outlined—wouldn’t be denied.

And Mordred would know that as well as he did.

Better, even, given his upbringing.

Still, such knowledge never made the truth any prettier, for it wasn’t meant to be _pretty_. However dressed up in lies it might be, the truth itself was barren, raw—and horridly cold, at times like these.

“You must be wrong.” Mordred’s voice was quieter than before, but the desperation woven within it was unmistakeable. “I would know, if you weren’t. I’d know.”

“I didn’t, not at first. Didn’t even know mine until I came here. Because not knowing’s better, sometimes.” Merlin pointedly eased his grip, but his palm was already marred by a reddened pattern, a mirror of the wood’s surface. “No one would have wanted to tell you.” He didn’t need to add what he was thinking— _I shouldn’t have, either_ —because Mordred wouldn’t need to know him well to be able to see that.

“Everything you’ve done, then.” Mordred’s breathing suddenly sounded very loud and very ragged. “It’s been because you’re trying to stop me. But if you’re right….” His voice cracked, betraying him more effectively than anything else had before.

“But if I’m right, then I can’t stop this, can’t stop you,” Merlin finished quietly, “any more than I can Morgana. Especially not when I consider my past attempts. But I can’t believe that, Mordred. I couldn’t carry on if I did.” He had to keep trying to avoid it, trying to keep any more of it from becoming realized and playing out as it had been foretold—preferably _without_ actually having to kill Mordred.

He just wasn’t sure he could.

“Then you would try to stop me from doing something I may not even do?”

It made no sense. It wasn’t fair. It was fallible thinking, really, him trying to work against destiny that way. But it was all Merlin had to go on, so he nodded. “I won’t succeed if I don’t try, and I daren’t take the chance that I could have done something and didn’t, all because I thought it inevitable.” He took a slow, careful breath. He didn’t want to say this, but it was better to say it than leave it unsaid. In truth, he was hoping Mordred would correct him. He wanted a different outcome than this, and Mordred would surely know more about the workings of the fates than he. “But you must know what I do, Mordred. Prophecies are resilient. It is difficult to stop a destiny, and there is only one sure way to do it.”

“So what I’m supposed to do—”

Merlin didn’t let Mordred finish. Their conversation was painful enough. “I don’t know the particulars,” he said, the half-truth rolling easily off his tongue, “and it’s better you don’t, either.”

“An easier burden to bear,” Mordred supplied, easily following Merlin’s train of thought. His tone betrayed his bitterness. “I’m not so sure I can believe that.”

“I’m not asking you to believe it. I’m just telling you how I see it. And why I’ve done everything I’ve ever done.”

“So you would never help again, like you did in the past. Because of what I might do.”

Merlin didn’t want to hear the hurt in Mordred’s voice, but he couldn’t close his ears to the sound. “I have helped you since I learned what I know. I just….” Merlin shrugged helplessly. “I just haven’t always done so once I did learn it because of what I know.”

“And you want me gone now,” Mordred said harshly, “for fear that the time has come for me to meet _my_ destiny.”

Merlin hesitated, unable to deny the claim. Morgana’s earlier words still rang in his ears. _“You condemned the rest of us.”_ How could he argue that when it was true? He hadn’t helped her. He couldn’t help Mordred. He had actively worked in the past to see them both dead, and however much he might regret the deed once it was done, he wouldn’t make a different choice if he were given the chance. Not when sparing them meant losing Arthur and failing to fulfill his destiny.

In the end, Merlin’s silence spoke for him. 

“You’ll have no help from me,” Mordred said brusquely, though Merlin had expected no less. “Not if I cannot trust you.” _And I shall never be able to, Emrys._

Mordred pushed past him, and Merlin shut his eyes on Mordred’s disappearing figure, hating what he had become.

-|-

_The throne room._

The words caught Morgana off her guard, and she stilled. 

The call came again: _The throne room._

It took her a moment to place the voice. _Mordred._

_Go to the throne room._

Morgana frowned but altered her steps to obey. _Why?_

Mordred was silent, and Morgana suspected she’d receive no response. She quickened her pace. _My brother is there,_ she surmised.

_No, but you must go nonetheless._

Morgana spared a moment to ponder the words and the tone behind them, which said as much as the words themselves. _You’re helping me,_ she decided, allowing relief to colour her voice. _Thank you._

_We must all meet our fate,_ was the embittered response, and Mordred did not answer her again.

Morgana’s feet carried her swiftly to the room in question, and at first glance she thought it empty. Then she noticed Arthur’s manservant leaning against the column farthest from the doorway, facing away from her and half hidden in the shadows.

But not so well hidden that she could not make out what he had with him.

Emrys might not be here any longer, but if he trusted the boy with that staff, he had made a very costly mistake indeed. 

Morgana strode forward, her previous exhaustion banished by how very close she was to getting what she wanted. Her footfalls were quiet but not silent, and she had no doubt that Merlin had marked her presence. He did not move, however, and she stopped a mere three paces from him. “Merlin,” she said, allowing a tiny trace of amusement to colour her tone.

Merlin turned to face her, and he looked as weary as she had felt. Emrys, no doubt, had had him running about in a pitiful attempt to stop her. A futile effort, as Merlin had been unable to even save Emrys himself. 

She was not certain he was dead yet, of course, but it would not be long, and she’d have her confirmation soon enough.

She’d learned when it paid to be patient.

“Do you ever wish it would stop, Morgana?” Merlin croaked. 

Morgana did not let her surprise at the question show, though she decided to humour him. The pillar bore much of his weight, and Emrys’s staff was held loosely in one hand. He would be easy enough to defeat. One good gust of wind would knock him over and he didn’t look as if he’d have the strength to stand again. “Do I ever wish what would stop?”

“This game,” Merlin answered, his voice little more than a whisper, “where we’re the pawns of destiny.”

The thought of Merlin playing a part in any destiny was laughable, but she supposed the ready aid he gave Emrys was part enough. “I’m a player, not a pawn,” Morgana replied sharply, “and it is an easy enough thing to remind you of that.”

Merlin mustered the strength to shake his head. “You’re not, though. None of us are, even if we try to be. No matter what we do, no matter how much we try to change things, the end of the story won’t be any different. We’re just taking different paths to the same end.”

“Then you’ve not looked in on your precious Emrys of late, have you?” Morgana hissed. 

Merlin pulled himself upright with the aid of the staff and ended up sagging against it instead of the pillar. He chuckled softly. “Have you?”

There was something in his tone which Morgana found deeply unsettling. Perhaps Emrys _had_ been in the throne room after all, had instructed Merlin to find the staff and meet him here, and Merlin’s exhaustion was because he had given some of his strength to the old sorcerer. After her time with Morgause, she knew such spells existed.

“I don’t need to see him to know he’s not well,” Morgana bit out.

Merlin’s expression sobered. “True,” he agreed quietly, “but I’m not sure any of us really are anymore. Well, I mean. The game’s changed us, and I….” He trailed off. “I’m not sure if I like who I’ve become.”

“A maudlin manservant?” Morgana sneered.

Merlin straightened up and locked his eyes with hers, and she was reminded that, helped by Emrys or not, Merlin had been the one to foil so many of her schemes in the past. “A mirror of you,” he said. 

She had no further warning before his eyes blazed gold and she went flying.

-|-

Arthur only narrowly avoided crashing into Mordred a second time, but the boy had enough of his wits about him to sidestep the king. “Where’s Merlin?” Arthur asked, making a wild clutch at Mordred’s arm. 

“I left him in the throne room.” 

The Druid’s voice was tight, and Arthur frowned. He opened his mouth, but Gwaine cut across him, saying, “You’re Mordred, aren’t you?”

It seemed like an obvious statement, given the circumstances, and Mordred seemed to treat it as such. “And you’re Strength,” he returned, a trace of mocking in his tone, “with Courage, both of which Emrys will need if he’s to survive.”

The reference didn’t pass by Arthur—nor Gwaine, to judge by his expression—and a small part of him wondered if _everyone_ who had magic knew much more than they ever let on. “Do you know where Morgana is?”

“The throne room,” Mordred said coldly.

Whatever Mordred and Merlin had said to each other, it had not gone well. “And you’re not going to help?” Arthur asked, casting a sideways glance at Gwaine. The knight nodded and took off at a run, and Arthur returned his attention to the Druid boy.

“You would not want my help, Arthur Pendragon, if you knew the future my help would bring.” Mordred wrenched his arm free of Arthur’s grasp. “You want your fate to be your own, but I fear you’ve already been poisoned by destiny’s touch.”

Arthur’s brow knit. He didn’t like Mordred’s tone. “What did Merlin say to you?”

“That ignorance is sometimes better than knowledge,” Mordred replied, “and I expect he was right. Knowledge changes people, their course and their actions and their very thoughts. He was right to wish us both ignorant of our destinies.”

“You’ve a destiny?” Arthur asked, the words spilling out of his mouth before he properly thought about them. Mordred hadn’t mentioned it before.

Of course, if Arthur was interpreting his words correctly, he hadn’t known of it before. Not precisely, anyway.

Mordred’s expression hardened into a look Arthur didn’t particularly like. “Yes. And it’s one I suspect I’ve begun to enact already, if not in the way Emrys thought I would. He was right to wish me gone. That he was too late was…inevitable, I suppose.”

“Too late for what?” Arthur asked slowly, not wholly sure he wanted to know the answer.

“There’s a poison in words,” said Mordred in a low voice, “for knowledge can be deadly in many more ways than one.”

Arthur’s thoughts flew and eventually arrived at what he was sure was the right conclusion. “Morgana knows about Merlin, doesn’t she? She knows who he is. Who he truly is.”

“She might as well,” replied Mordred, which to Arthur made it sound as if Merlin was—like always—in trouble. “He’s already too late to stop what he once tried to prevent altogether.”

Mordred had unnerved Arthur before, but this…. “Mordred, whatever Merlin said— It doesn’t have to define you. You can make your own choices.”

“I tried,” Mordred said flatly. “I tried to help, and now I see I may have done nothing more than make it all worse. I wanted to run from the very idea of having a destiny, and now I realize that I chose the path to my destiny anyway. Emrys— Merlin,” he corrected, “was right to fear what I would do, and so should you. Leave me be, lest you hasten the course of the future.”

Arthur stepped back, Mordred’s tone enough to drive him away. “Tell me what happened.”

“I’ve said as much already: the threads of destiny that have been strung out and are being played upon right now. I just didn’t realize my own part until it was too late.”

“But it’s _not_ too late, is it?” Arthur argued, even though he wasn’t entirely sure what subject Mordred was truly dancing around. “That’s the point. Whatever it is that you think is going to happen, that you think will be a result of something you’ve already said or done— It hasn’t happened yet. Perhaps it won’t at all. You’re being foolish.”

“No. I was a fool not to realize before, just as you are a fool for denying it now.”

“Mordred,” Arthur said, hoping the repetition of his name would help some of what Arthur was telling him to actually sink in, “they are just stories.”

“Then know they’ve been written,” Mordred returned, “and that you are nothing but a character caught in the tale without your realizing it, just as I was.”

Mordred pulled away, stepping out of Arthur’s reach before turning his back on him. Arthur let him go, painfully aware that he could not ease whatever trouble was plaguing the Druid boy and that if there was anything for him to do, it would be found in helping his manservant best his half-sister.

For if they were enacting stories, the end must come sometime, and Arthur really wouldn’t mind being free of Morgana at last.

Even if he did wish she weren’t beyond saving, as she mightn’t be, if this really were a story.

-|-

Gwaine, who had been ready to charge into the throne room to help Merlin however he could, stopped in the entrance when he realized he wasn’t sure if Merlin actually _needed_ the help.

He’d caught Morgana by surprise; that much was clear. She might have realized that Merlin had magic, but Gwaine was willing to bet she hadn’t realized quite how much power Merlin truly had. 

He hadn’t, after all. Not at first.

But Merlin had always wanted it to be that way, just for this reason.

Merlin looked awful. That was undeniable. He looked tired. Weak. Like he’d spent too long in the tavern and consequently had been up all night and sick all the next day. He was pale—from the blood loss?—despite the obvious exertion now, and his movements were slow and stiff.

But his eyes blazed with more than determination, taking on a fiery golden hue more often than not as Gwaine watched.

It was almost…frightening. Or it would be, if Merlin’s anger—and his magic—had been directed at him. He was pouring everything into this fight; Gwaine could tell that just by looking at him. He wouldn’t have any reserve strength to counter any great attack of Morgana’s, which was undoubtedly why he kept her on the defensive now.

Gwaine wasn’t sure how long he just stood there, watching and wondering if he’d do any good if he interfered, but eventually Arthur turned up by his side and Gwaine realized he’d probably waited too long.

“Merlin has magic,” he said, very quietly. Being pushed with it was one thing, as was seeing it used for the menial tasks Merlin had done earlier; seeing it used for _this_ , with such grace and precision and _power_ , was quite another.

“Merlin has magic,” Arthur repeated in agreement, his tone telling Gwaine that there was still a part of the king which didn’t quite expect to see his manservant in the position he was now. He drew his sword. “On me,” he said.

“Not yet.” Gwaine had gotten an exasperated glare from Arthur before, but he’d gone further than normal this time in questioning Arthur’s judgement on this matter, and he knew it. He just didn’t particularly care. “It’s Merlin’s fight. We’d just be getting in his way.”

“He’s going to get himself killed.”

Gwaine raised his eyebrows.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “On me,” he repeated, and Gwaine drew his sword as well. But Arthur, too, paused and watched and listened, and Gwaine wasn’t sure when they’d enter into the fray.

-|-

“How much has Emrys taught you?” Morgana bit out, redirecting his fireballs so that they scorched nothing more than stone.

“Everything,” Merlin replied. It was true, in one way. Gaius had given him the means to study and had provided guidance, but most of his magic was self-taught. Morgause had taught Morgana, but he’d not had a true teacher. Not with spells, anyway—or at least spells that didn’t require potions.

Still. He shouldn’t waste his breath talking now, but….

But he did, even knowing that Morgana was using it to buy time, to get information, to gather her wits and her magic and her strength to strike at him as he did her. Because he didn’t want this to be the end that it was. Because it was his own folly that had driven her to Morgause, his own folly that had turned Mordred against him—even now, even when he’d had a chance to set things right, to start anew. And he’d destroyed it.

And so it fell to ruin, magic smouldering on stone and destinies threatening to crumble to dust.

Because this was the only way to end a destiny: to destroy the one who bore it or the one who was integral to it. That was why Kilgharrah had told him that if Mordred lived, Merlin could not fulfill his destiny—and by consequence, Arthur would not fulfill his.

And both Morgana and Mordred stood in the way of the future Merlin was trying to bring. Mordred…. He’d have to speak with Mordred again, before his new bitterness had time to mix with old and set and mature into something worse. Morgana….

Merlin lowered the staff, and he felt his last spell die before he could complete it, his magic fading.

It was too late for Morgana, since he’d never been there for her when she’d needed it.

He’d failed her, just as she’d said. 

He’d condemned her.

Things would be different, surely, if he hadn’t left her to Morgause. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I turned my back on you, Morgana. I’m sorry I let you become what you did.”

Morgana flung a spell back at him, propelling him off his feet and sending him to slam painfully into the far wall. The staff, torn from his grip, clattered to the floor partway across the room. “You’re sorry?” she repeated incredulously. Her tone sharpened, becoming accusing. “Sorry for abandoning me? For turning a blind eye to my struggles? You’re no better than your master, Merlin.” Her words came out as a hiss as she drew up to him. “And you’ll meet the same fate.”

His magic surged inside him, ready to fight and defend, but it was weak, and he knew it. He was exhausted, and it was, too.

The anger and desperation which had fuelled him before had drained away, leaving guilt in its place.

This was his fault, all of it. If he’d done things differently….

Merlin took a slow breath. Morgana was poised above him, allowing him one last remark. She still hadn’t realized who he was, even now—even now, when she’d realized she’d sorely underestimated his magical ability.

Because she, like Arthur, had never looked closely enough at him to really consider the possibility, for all that he’d given her reason enough to do so over the years.

Vaguely, Merlin was aware of yells and footsteps, but he kept his focus on Morgana, who had not turned from him, either. There was a time for lies—and there was a time to break through them all with the truth.

His secret had been a shield, but now he could wield it as a weapon, and he needed every advantage he could get.

“No,” he said, very quietly but with as much confidence as he could muster, “because Emrys is your destiny, Morgana, the light which will fend off your darkness—and you can’t extinguish my blaze so easily.” His magic burst out of him again to fling her aside—easier now that he’d caught her off her guard—and he scrambled to his feet.

He couldn’t give up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve actually written an alternate chapter to take the place of this one, which I can post at the end of the story if anyone’s interested in reading it. (And, yes, it does involve rather different events than these.) But for now, I hope you all enjoyed the version I chose to run with. Thanks to everyone who has been taking the time to comment upon this story!


	31. Chapter 31

Morgana’s half-finished spell spun out of her, but it did little more than trip up the intruders: her half-brother and the knight who shouldn’t have lived to see this night fall. 

That the old sorcerer she’d known as Emrys wasn’t with them merely served to cement the meaning of Merlin’s words.

He was Emrys.

_Him_ , _Emrys_.

She had half a mind to deny it; she would, if not for the expression which had been on Merlin’s face and the shiver which had run down her spine as he’d said it.

_“The one they call Emrys will walk in your shadow.”_

Morgana’s eyes closed, but that did nothing to block out the horrid memory of the Cailleach’s chilling voice.

_“He is your destiny.”_

“Arthur! Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed? Get out of here!”

_“And he is your doom.”_

“You aren’t one to talk, Merlin.”

The irritation in Arthur’s voice helped ground Morgana in reality. Her eyes opened and she climbed slowly to her feet. She supposed it all made sense; if there was anyone who could prompt Arthur to change the laws rather than lash out with fear, it was Merlin. 

She’d known Arthur nearly all her life, but it was for _Merlin_ that he would reconsider the use of magic in Camelot.

“ _You’re_ Emrys?” she spat, pouring the incredulity into her voice as she gathered her magic. “You had an even better idea of what I was facing and you still let me meet it alone?”

Her words had frozen the others in place, though Merlin’s eyes turned back toward her. “I did try. I told you where the Druids were.”

“And no doubt then told Uther where to find me!” Her magic was building, but she wouldn’t release it quite yet. She needed…. She needed some element of surprise, something that would throw Merlin off his game. _Mordred!_ She needed help, and she wasn’t foolish enough not to admit it. _If you’ve ever cared for me at all, come!_

Aithusa…. She could try to call for Aithusa as well, but even if the dragon heard her, Morgana wasn’t sure she could help. Not when she had such split loyalties, though why Aithusa would want to protect _Merlin_ was beyond Morgana.

Mordred was the only one she could count on.

_Merlin is Emrys_ , Morgana added, _and even weakened, he’s stronger than I_. If she had been better prepared for this battle, that might not be the case, but she wasn’t. She’d thought, perhaps, that she _had_ weakened Emrys enough to defeat him. He certainly hadn’t been in any state to put up this much of a fight when Arthur and Gwaine had dragged him off the first time. And _Merlin_ certainly hadn’t looked like he could last as long as he had, but she’d never expected his strength to be so great.

“You were plotting against Camelot,” Merlin said quietly. “And you never stopped. You never changed, not even now that Camelot is beginning to.” 

“You’ve not changed either,” Morgana shot back. “Always hiding, always plotting! You cannot tell me your faith never wavered, that you never doubted what would come. Uther would have seen you dead, and Arthur would not have dared to defend you were Uther still alive!”

“That’s not true,” Arthur said immediately, but Morgana could hear the doubt in his voice.

Argument was good, however. She’d hear all the denials he was willing to say. She needed the time, and none of them seemed wise enough to move before all was said. Morgana kept the smirk off her face now, though. For all that this talk was useful, for all that they were willingly standing there and practically _waiting_ for her to make her move, she couldn’t count on it and wasn’t going to give any hint that they were playing into her hands.

Surely, just a few moments more….

“Of course it is,” Morgana said haughtily, using a tone of voice Arthur should know well after all their years growing up together. “You wish to see me dead, dear brother. If you’d discovered I’d had magic before, you wouldn’t have hesitated before telling Uther.”

“You don’t know that!”

“You have been happy to slaughter sorcerers,” Morgana continued. “You say you wish to stop, but it is nothing more than an excuse to save your little pet. And even with him—” here, she looked pointedly at Merlin “—even with him, you wouldn’t have accepted it right away. You would have contemplated sending him away if not just killing him altogether. Isn’t that right?”

“Arthur’s done everything he can to protect Merlin.” Gwaine spoke this time. Unexpected, but at least it told her he too was too involved to move against her right now. “Even though it meant lying to the rest of us.”

“Yet you fancy yourself different from me,” Morgana said, including both Arthur and Merlin in her gaze now, “even though you have also lied for protection.”

“For protection,” Merlin repeated. “Not destruction.”

“I am not the only one who has destroyed something while walking this path,” Morgana bit out. “You yourself said you were a mirror of me. You’ve broken much, and not all to protect anyone besides yourself!”

“At least I’ve been working towards a brighter Camelot,” Merlin shot back, “when all you would bring it is darkness!”

It was the wrong thing to say, for Morgana knew precisely how to turn those very words back on him. “Then you admit it’s all been worth the cost, has it? That it doesn’t matter to you how much is lost in the fight as long as the end is the one you sought? Even though your blind ambition has won you as many enemies as it has defeated? Even though you have to face people like me, the remnants of your destruction?”

“That’s not what I said.” Merlin had been repeating that from her first sentence, but she’d overruled him. Her silence now, however, let it all sink in. “That’s not what I said,” he insisted again. “I never—”

“You _always_ ,” Morgana cut in. “You _always_ turned me away. You _always_ worked against me. You _always_ —”

“Tried to _help_.”

“By reporting me to Uther? By _poisoning_ me? That’s your idea of _helping_?”

Arthur was gawking at Merlin. Gwaine looked as if he were trying to come up with an argument in Merlin’s favour. Merlin’s lips were already forming more denials. 

She’d heard nothing from Mordred, but her magic had risen within her in a sharp crescendo, simmering below the surface, and she couldn’t afford to wait much longer.

She couldn’t guarantee that the others would be content with— _distracted by_ —talking any longer.

But before she had a chance to fully focus her magic, the others went flying.

“You always spoke of change,” Mordred said quietly as he entered the room, “but acted to fulfill your destiny as if there was no chance of events playing out differently.”

Merlin, predictably, was the first to find his feet, and he looked upon Mordred with hurt betrayal written all over his face—as if he was not the one who had betrayed both of them.

“Morgana’s right,” Mordred added. “By turning us away and acting against us, you’ve made us into who we are. You should not be surprised by what we have become.” There was a pause, during which Arthur and Gwaine also had a chance to regain their feet. “After all, we are all bound to our destinies.”

Merlin had taken a few steps back of his own accord. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But this is what it has become.”

Arthur and Gwaine were foolish enough to try to attack them—as if she couldn’t see them move—and Morgana’s magic whipped out of her, lashing into them with a force that sent them back hard enough that they did not move to get up again.

Merlin’s cry was too little, too late.

“I always knew you were resilient,” Morgana admitted. Still buoyed by the last rush of adrenaline, her magic swelled within her again, ready to strike. “I just never expected this to be the reason why, _Emrys_.”

Merlin flinched.

“Make sure those two are finished,” Morgana called, trusting that Mordred would listen to her since he’d come back. 

Merlin took a step back as she advanced. “Why is Aithusa working with you?” he asked.

“Why does she treat you as kin?” Morgana countered, unwilling to be distracted. Merlin couldn’t beat her at her own game. And now that she had Emrys in her sights, now that she didn’t need to worry about him arriving at just the wrong moment….

“Because we are,” Merlin said softly, dropping into a crouch. Morgana realized too late why. Brilliant white light blinded her as it exploded from the crystal of Merlin’s precious staff and crashed into her with the fierce force of a lightning bolt.

Her built-up magic had protected her from the worst of it, but she was beyond badly shaken and closer to barely conscious. She lay still for a long time, knowing better than to draw attention to herself by groaning and shifting. Keeping still was the best chance she had. She’d underestimated Merlin. Now, it was time for him to underestimate her. Let him be distracted by Mordred. She knew the boy’s power. With Merlin in such poor condition, Mordred was more than a match for the great Emrys. 

Slowly, the spinning world settled out again and muffled sounds became clear. She opened slits of eyes to orient herself but didn’t risk turning her head quite yet. She needed to think. She’d never best Merlin if she didn’t think. He was far cleverer than she had ever given him credit for.

So Morgana kept still, waiting, thinking, and examining possibilities for her next move—one which, she hoped, would be difficult for Merlin to counter.

By the time she recovered and felt confident enough to shift her head slightly to get a better view, Merlin had crossed the room again. He still had the staff in his left hand, and he now carried Arthur’s sword in his right. Mordred had Gwaine’s, and Morgana could tell at a glance which of them was the better swordsman.

But Merlin wouldn’t depend on something that so clearly wasn’t his strength if he didn’t have to. His magic must be dangerously weak now and all the more difficult to control for it; he was likely conserving what little he could. She’d not realized until their discussion about Aithusa how much their current battleground limited him. Here, inside, Aithusa— _and that other dragon_ —was of no help to him. 

Well. Aithusa might be, but she knew what his call for her was, and he’d not sounded it. 

And from what she knew of _Emrys_ , his magic was even stronger when he was surrounded by the earth and the magic it held. Here, inside thick, quarried stone…. He was farther from it here, and it was all finally playing in her favour.

Morgana smirked and began gathering her magic together again. She would need a bit of luck on her side for this one. It would have to be a near perfect strike to have the desired effect. She needed to target it well, and she needed to put enough force into it for it to be effective. And she needed to time it perfectly. If she missed….

Well. It didn’t matter terribly if she missed her first target. She’d surely hit her second, and that would be more than enough for the time being. 

-|-

“You don’t have to do this, Mordred,” Merlin said quietly.

“Apparently I do,” Mordred replied bitterly. Merlin had spent enough time with Arthur and the knights to know from Mordred’s handling of the sword that however much he was used to battling with magic, he was no stranger to using steel.

Merlin adjusted his own grip. He had the better sword. He just didn’t want to use it. If he wasn’t careful, its blow would be deadly.

But that’s what this was coming down to, after all. Perhaps it didn’t matter so much. If Mordred was going to side with Morgana, Merlin didn’t have any other choice. He needed to cut apart their alliance before the situation got even worse.

Destiny was a horrible thing, the way it defined people.

The way they—he and Mordred both—were letting it define them, anyway.

But he’d come so far down this path now that he could see no other choice—providing he couldn’t convince Mordred not to start down it.

Something else must have been preying on Mordred’s mind, though, for his loyalties to switch so completely. Surely it wasn’t just what Merlin had admitted to him. Morgana must have said something, too.

Or maybe Merlin just really wanted Morgana to be responsible for this, instead of him.

Even though he knew, deep down, that it was just another lie that he was telling himself.

He just sincerely hoped that if he was able to end this now, if he did manage to take Mordred’s life and if he did manage to defeat Morgana and take hers, then this would be over. He wanted it to be the end of this particular evil, for surely nothing worse could rise up in its place. And surely, if it ended now, this _would_ be the end. Surely there wasn’t time for the end—Arthur’s end, if not Albion’s—to be brought about now. Surely it wasn’t already set in motion. Surely he wasn’t already too late.

A small, betraying voice whispered that he was merely telling himself more lies, and Merlin did his best to ignore it.

Arthur was to die by Mordred’s hand. If the boy—for he was still just a boy—died now, that couldn’t come to pass.

But what if it didn’t mean precisely what it sounded like and Mordred would still be the cause of Arthur’s death, even if only indirectly? Prophecies were astoundingly resilient, finding ways to come true no matter how much effort anyone put in trying to stop it.

And sometimes they came true as a result of that effort, something Merlin was discovering to be the case more often than not when he was involved.

“Go, and I won’t hunt you down if you stay away,” Merlin offered. He didn’t mean the words to be a threat. Mordred would know well enough the threat he posed. He just wanted to give him one last chance.

But Mordred clearly believed there were no more chances to be had, for his expression hardened. “Do not expect to have peace with the Druid people if you kill me now, Emrys. They will speak of you differently than they do now if you murder me in cold blood.”

It was never something Merlin had wanted to do, and he hated himself for even contemplating it now, but Mordred was through with listening to him. Merlin couldn’t blame him, really, after what he’d said, but…. 

But it was different now, if Mordred had chosen to side with Morgana—even if it was just to fight him now. It still united them. It was still something he had to stop. “I’m protecting Arthur. They of all people should expect no less.”

From his peripheral vision, Merlin could see that Morgana was still down from his last blast, and he hoped she’d stay unconscious for a while. He wanted to be able to deal with Mordred in peace. He’d managed to get Mordred to circle around so that he stood between him and Arthur—and, if he lunged to his right should Mordred make a move, Gwaine, but they’d been pushed backwards at a wider angle than Merlin would have liked. 

He may not be able to protect them both, or at least not as well as he’d have liked.

“You protect him blindly. That is your downfall. You never realize how much damage you do in the process.” Mordred’s smile was grim. “You’ve wanted me dead for a long time, Merlin, but I’ll only fight you harder now that I know why and now that I know you’ll never change.”

Merlin heard movement behind him. It was Arthur, stirring. A quick sideways glance confirmed that Gwaine was still out cold.

He was somewhat surprised, having half expected the opposite given the condition of the two, but Arthur was renowned for his stubbornness, and this was something he wanted to see through.

“Merlin?”

“Stay behind me,” Merlin said, even though he wasn’t sure how well he could protect Arthur. “Watch Morgana for me. Let me know when she moves.”

More shuffling. Then, “Why are _you_ trying to fight with a sword?”

Merlin frowned and didn’t answer. Mordred, however, did. “Because Emrys isn’t all-powerful. No matter how great a sorcerer, even he has limitations. And unless he wishes to see this entire castle destroyed, he can’t even call for assistance.”

Merlin could imagine Arthur’s face, with confusion written all over it. “What kind of assistance would destroy the castle?”

“You haven’t figured it out, even now? There’s nothing of it in the stories, but I had no trouble realizing the truth. I daresay Morgana’s worked it out by now, even if she doubted her conclusion at first, as I did.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Merlin said abruptly, hoping to put an end to Arthur’s questions. They didn’t have time for it now. “I can explain later.”

“Does this have anything to do with the other magic you did? The sort that didn’t sound like the rest?”

Mordred’s eyebrows climbed. “You know that much and you’re still questioning what it is?”

Merlin let out an exasperated huff. “I said I’ll explain la—”

Mordred moved, and Merlin barely had time to block his strike. He should have known that Mordred had just been waiting for a distraction, but he’d still been caught off his guard and felt like he was fighting to regain ground, fighting just to stay alive. He wasn’t fighting to defend Arthur, wasn’t fighting to win—not yet, anyway. He wasn’t fighting well enough for it. 

The staff was proving to be more of a hindrance than a help, but he didn’t want to relinquish it. He needed to keep it safe. He might need it again. He might not be able to win this battle if he didn’t use it, not when he was outnumbered.

And he certainly wouldn’t win if either Mordred or Morgana got their hands on it. 

Trouble was, near as Merlin could tell, Mordred had as much skill with a sword as any of the knights. It was something he’d worked on, a skill earned through experience rather than the mere imitation of such that could be acquired using magic. And this wasn’t the first time Merlin had wielded a sword, it wasn’t the first time he’d fought for what felt like _everything_ , but it was immediately clear to him that Mordred was better than he was.

And he was a good deal more well rested, and he still had an incredible amount of magic to draw upon.

Merlin didn’t.

Not even when he considered how much Kilgharrah had healed him or how much channelling his power through the staff would help when he could muster up so little of it to control.

He’d hoped, by finally telling Morgana who he really was, he’d succeed in unnerving her enough that she’d make a mistake. She would be nearly as tired as he. It had had a chance of working.

It likely would have, if he hadn’t forgotten something he should never have forgotten.

But he hadn’t counted on Mordred.

“Merlin! _Morgana_.”

Merlin turned at Arthur’s shout and a biting pain raced through his side. He gritted his teeth and tried to strike Mordred in return but was thrown back— _by Morgana’s magic_ —before he had the chance.

At least, that’s what he’d thought before realizing red blood glistened on his blade.

“Merlin, you _idiot_.” Merlin blinked and tore his gaze away from the sword. After a second or two, Arthur’s face swam into focus. “At this rate, you’re going to kill yourself,” the king grumbled. Merlin was vaguely aware of Arthur taking the sword from him. “Stay behind me,” he said.

It sounded as if Arthur was going to fight.

But that was ridiculous. Arthur couldn’t take on both Mordred _and_ Morgana, and by Arthur’s earlier shout, Morgana was more aware of her surroundings at the moment than he was. It had been her magic which had tossed him, not Mordred’s. Merlin was certain of that. 

He was distinctly less certain of how to help Arthur when his mind—and his magic—wanted nothing more than to focus on his burning side and— When had Mordred managed to land a blow on his leg?

Merlin shifted, hoping to get into a crouch despite his injury. He realized belatedly that his left hand was empty as well. He’d lost the staff. Giving up on trying to move for a moment, he scanned the floor, looking for it. It would help him in more ways than one now, because by the way he felt, he’d need it to stand—much more so than he had before.

When Merlin finally spotted it, however, his heart sank.

It was broken in two.

The remaining Sidhe magic that had made it such a powerful magnifier was already dwindling away, fading to nothing.

Morgana hadn’t thrown him back in a crude attempt to give Mordred the advantage after all. She’d snapped his staff, and he’d been pushed back by the sheer force of the blow. Neither she nor Mordred could use it against him now, but neither could he use it against them, and that had been her objective all along.

She knew he’d been relying upon it this time in a way he had not any time he had fought her before.

Merlin pushed himself to his feet, and the pain spiked and sparked despite his magic. He stumbled and almost collapsed when he put weight on his wounded leg but somehow managed to stay upright. For a few terrifying seconds—it felt much longer, but he knew it was less than a minute—he couldn’t see anything, but then the pain receded slightly and his vision cleared.

Mordred, clearly unharmed and moving easily, was battling Arthur, and Merlin realized that all the clanging wasn’t just in his head. The Druid boy looked calm and determined, as if this felt like little more to him than a mere sparring match. As if this wasn’t the first time he’d fought a swordsman as skilled as Arthur.

Morgana was also on her feet, looking much steadier than he felt, and she looked on with amusement. Perhaps she felt his gaze, for she turned to him and smiled. She believed everything was going in her favour. She believed, with Mordred’s help, she’d win.

Just like she’d taunted, time and time again.

Merlin took a deep breath and ripped his magic away from tending his own injuries. He’d made sure Kilgharrah was dealing with Aithusa. He had to face Morgana and Mordred by himself. Arthur…. Arthur was forgetting that he was dealing with sorcerers. He was forgetting, for the moment, that Mordred had magic and wouldn’t only have his wits to rely upon once—if—Arthur managed to disarm him. 

He was forgetting how much more valuable he was to them dead.

Morgana thought he couldn’t do anything else, that the fact he’d turned to steel meant he couldn’t muster up enough magic for even the simplest of spells. Mordred clearly suspected the same, but they should both know better than to underestimate him. Merlin wasn’t finished yet. He was Magic. He’d been born with it so that he would be able to fulfill his destiny. He wasn’t about to let Morgana and Mordred take that future away from him—especially not when he’d finally caught a glimpse of what it could be like, given time.

He would see his destiny and Arthur’s fulfilled, even if he had to destroy Morgana’s and Mordred’s to do it. 

But to have any hope of that now, he needed a distraction.

And an awful lot of luck.

Merlin swayed on his feet and his grasp on his magic started to slip. He grabbed at it and forced it under control, fighting to tame it as hard as he had when he’d first come to train under Gaius. He heard Morgana’s laugh as his legs buckled and he collapsed to the floor, a new pain spiking through his hands and knees. The earlier pain seemed to intensify, rushing through him with renewed force. His concentration lapsed, and his magic burst out of his control.

The main entry doors exploded, sending thin, sharp, splintering slivers of wood flying every which way, and Merlin had the only distraction he was going to get.


	32. Chapter 32

Elyan knew Leon had pushed the others as quickly as they could go, but it still didn’t feel fast enough. Even now that they were finally through the forest and the lower town, it felt like they were moving far too slowly. He had to do this for Gwen. He had to do it for Arthur. He had to do it for Camelot.

He wanted to be in the castle right now and have his sword at Morgana’s throat—or, better yet, in her heart. But his particular group—they’d split up in an effort to draw less attention to themselves, sticking in threes or fours and each darting off to a pre-assigned side entrance—had only just breached the courtyard now.

“We should split up further,” Elyan said, keeping his voice low. They all knew that their conversation would carry if they weren’t careful, and normally he wouldn’t speak at all, but he just _couldn’t_ ….

“We can’t face Morgana alone,” Leon countered. Although Gwen had first given permission to Elyan to move, he’d deferred to Leon’s seniority. The knights leading the other groups—Bors and Kay—were also among those who had been knights the longest. Elyan, who was still quite aware of his own doubts despite Gwen’s unwavering faith, had felt it prudent that Leon and the others be in charge. It would remind the younger ones that there was a very good reason their elders had unshakable faith in Arthur, for there were a number of knights still alive despite riding out with Arthur for so many years.

They’d left a fair few experienced knights with Gwen, of course. Given the shoulder injury he’d taken during their escape, Bedivere had been chosen to take the message to Queen Annis of Caerleon, but there were plenty of people—knights and villagers and castlefolk alike—patrolling the area around the makeshift campsite. He had no more reason than usual to worry about his sister.

Unfortunately, he typically had plenty of reason to worry about his sister, even when Morgana wasn’t at the centre of it all.

“But we’ll find them faster if we search separately,” Elyan argued. “We don’t have to meet her head on alone. We can regroup first, find out what the others learned, and then attack.”

“We aren’t the only group searching,” Percival said quietly. “Leon’s right. Our best chance is to stay together. Even when facing magic, there is strength in numbers.”

“We number too few for that,” Elyan muttered, but he didn’t argue further. Gwen had told him to take a small group in hopes of going unnoticed, but many men had volunteered to take part and they _were_ going against Morgana, so the compromise had been to take a few small groups. Kay’s had entered through the tunnels from which they’d all escaped. They’d be scouring the lower levels, hoping—vainly, likely as not—to discover Arthur and Gwaine and spirit them away before Morgana was any wiser. Bors’s group of four was the only one which had planned to subdivide, taking both the perimeter and the upper levels, searching for more of Morgana’s traps and other captives who might have been held like George—not to mention all the royal chambers, should Morgana ever actually let her guard down long enough to sleep.

His group had the main levels, where Morgana or her dragon was most likely to be if they hadn’t decided to rest.

Given what he’d heard of Morgana and her dreams from Gwen, however, he wasn’t sure she wouldn’t be waiting for them if she had slept long enough to dream.

If she had, and if she had warning of their approach as a consequence….

It could be a slaughter.

According to Gwen, Emrys had warned her of such a thing. Not in so many words, no. The old sorcerer had tactfully avoided saying such things, if only not to spook his messengers, Merlin and George. But Gwen had heard what hadn’t been said loud and clear, just as he had when she’d repeated it to him. 

But they’d left it in Emrys’s hands long enough, as far as Elyan was concerned. They’d had no outward sign of Emrys’s success in any way, no sign that Morgana or her hold on Camelot was weakening. They only had more bad signs, like Leon’s reports of Morgana’s destruction in the lower town and, much more recently, that _thing_ that had passed overhead, heading toward the citadel. Frankly, Elyan was thankful they hadn’t run into it.

He wasn’t entirely sure it was an encounter they would survive.

Sending runners to a couple of their allies wasn’t going to be enough. More likely than not, they already had some idea of the situation. Even expecting the request from Gwen, even if they had already made their decision and, if agreeing to help, already set about making the appropriate preparations—it would still take time for any of them to see that response in Camelot. And Elyan didn’t think they had much more time. 

They hadn’t gone very far before they heard the distinctive clang of metal on metal. Leon signalled them forward without a word. The fight had already begun. In one respect, that was good. It meant Arthur and the rest of them were probably still alive. In another respect, it was bad—because the three of them, alone, might not be enough to turn the tables against Morgana. Not when she had magic on her side and no qualms about how she used it.

It didn’t take them long to determine that the sounds were originating from the throne room, and they moved quickly. 

Unfortunately for them, they moved a bit _too_ quickly.

They were about three steps from the entrance when the doors exploded.

-|-

Arthur lost his footing.

He wasn’t wholly sure that the entire floor didn’t shake, to be perfectly honest. It was a few long, disorienting seconds before he realized what had even happened. When he _did_ , he realized that he wasn’t the only one who had started when the doors had been blasted apart, because although Mordred had managed to wound him, he’d done the same. 

He’d been in the midst of striking, Mordred of blocking. Thus far, Mordred’s blocking had been much better than Arthur had seen out of some of his knights, and he might have seriously considered offering to make Mordred a knight of Camelot in spite of his possession of magic had they not been fighting on opposite sides. But neither of them was wearing any sort of armour or mail, and Arthur’s sword had slipped through the opening it had been granted when Mordred had jerked at the blast.

Unfortunately, the slip of the block hadn’t worked entirely in Arthur’s favour, as Mordred’s sword had scored his side in the process.

Mordred had gotten the worst of it, however, as Arthur’s strike had had some force in it despite jumping himself—how could he have anticipated the doors exploding, anyway?—and Mordred had had his back to the doors and not escaped unscathed from that, either.

The piece that had embedded itself deeply in his back, so close to his spine, made Arthur wonder just how well Mordred would even recover.

But it wouldn’t be the first time Arthur had heard tales of magic working miracles.

Arthur didn’t register Merlin’s presence until his manservant was beside him, prying his sword from his grasp. Arthur stopped resisting once he realized what Merlin was doing, though he really had no idea why. Merlin had enough trouble wielding a sword on a good day. Now, he looked even worse than he had earlier—something Arthur hadn’t thought he could do, particularly as he was still standing now.

Well.

He was standing, but he was unsteady on his feet. He was still quick, however, and was next to Morgana before Arthur realized his intention. 

This was the Emrys of legend, the most powerful sorcerer to yet be born. The one who found the strength to do what was thought impossible. The one who mustered up magic when others would have none left. The one who was driven to do what he believed he must. The one who never gave up.

Looking at Merlin’s face now, Arthur could imagine in brutal detail how Merlin must have looked when Agravaine had met his death.

He wondered if it had been as much of a surprise to his uncle as it had to him.

Merlin raised the sword, faint wisps of what Arthur assumed had to be pure _magic_ curling around its blade as if the steel itself blazed with fire.

Agravaine’s death would have been quicker than Morgana’s would be, if Merlin’s aim was as bad as it usually was.

But Arthur had the feeling that, now, when it mattered so very much, Merlin’s aim would be just fine.

More than that, unless he was very much mistaken, Merlin was pouring some sort of power into his sword to _ensure_ that its strike was deadly—even if it normally wouldn’t be, since he didn’t look to have the strength for much more than a glancing blow.

The sword plunged.

Morgana rolled and kicked out, and Merlin went down. Arthur hadn’t thought her conscious. He’d thought she, like Mordred and nearly him, had been knocked out—particularly when he’d noticed her lying prone like that. But she’d been getting awfully good at waiting these days, and it seemed her patience had paid off once again.

Arthur began to creep towards them. Morgana was sitting up now, her attention focused fully on Merlin, and Arthur hoped for his sake that it would remain that way. But if he wanted to get his sword—it had clattered to the floor when Merlin had lost his balance, looking as ordinary as it ever had before—he needed to be quick and quiet and hope that Morgana never bothered to look his way.

As risky as it was trying to pick up his sword so close to her, he still thought he had a better chance than trying to free Gwaine’s from Mordred’s hands and then making his way towards her. He risked entering her field of vision if he tried that, and he wanted to keep behind her the entire time if he could.

“Your apologies mean nothing,” Morgana snarled. “Things won’t ever be like they once were, and you should know that as well as the rest of us.”

Merlin spluttered something incomprehensible in response, and when Arthur risked a glance, he realized with growing horror that Merlin was choking.

As far as Arthur could tell, it was the same spell that Morgana had used on the guard that had first alerted them to her presence.

Merlin’s eyes flickered but remained their usual clear blue. The quick flashes of gold were reminiscent of embers from a dying fire and nothing more, for the gold never took hold and burned brightly as Arthur knew it could. 

Merlin hadn’t the strength for any more magic.

“I should have done this years ago,” Morgana said as she continued to choke the life out of Merlin. “It would have made everything so much simpler.”

Had she tried such a thing years ago, Arthur suspected Merlin, if not this worn down, would have been able to fight back and perhaps return the favour. And he would have now, Arthur was sure, if he’d had the strength, because even now, Morgana was giving him time to fight back.

Arthur had seen how quickly she could kill someone, snapping a neck without a word, but she was still intent on seeing them all suffer.

She enjoyed the process of killing and happily drew it out as long as she feasibly could, even now.

But, Arthur supposed, if Merlin couldn’t fight back, if Morgana’s great enemy of Emrys had been rendered helpless…. She was that much closer to accomplishing her goal than she had been before. She had that much more reason to gloat, to savour the moment.

Arthur’s hand closed over the hilt of his sword.

Merlin’s eyes rolled up into his head.

As Merlin slumped forward, Arthur drove his sword deep into Morgana’s flesh.

-|-

Percival was the first to recover. 

The blast had knocked the three of them out, but he doubted it had been for very long, as the other two were already stirring as well. They’d all been wearing their mail, and while it was less effective than armour, it had protected them well enough. They were simply fortunate not to have landed on each others’ swords, as they’d all had them drawn when the blast came.

Percival picked up his own sword before helping Elyan to his feet. He had been nearest to the door and had gotten a nasty blow to the head, a wound which still bled freely. Under different circumstances, Percival might have insisted that Elyan not continue on with them, that he remain here and rest until they could come back and collect him, but Percival was well aware that Elyan would not accept such terms.

He would force himself to be coherent enough to act now, even if it took all his willpower to be able to focus.

“On me,” Leon said softly when they’d all collected their swords. The three of them had all been flung far enough away that they didn’t have a clear view of what they were about to charge into. All they could see was an empty room.

Sound, however, told them it was far from empty. The clearest sound was the low, deadly tone that undoubtedly belonged to Morgana. Beneath that, very faintly, something else, but they hadn’t the time to wait to find out precisely what it was. Leon raised his hand, and they charged forward.

An ear-splitting scream pierced the silence, covering up any sounds they might have made upon their entrance. Percival took in the scene at a glance. Arthur, with a bloody sword, knelt behind a fallen Morgana. Merlin, before her, lay collapsed on the floor. Gwaine, farthest from them all, was also out cold. Nearest to them, obviously wounded but stirring, was the Druid who had visited the campsite earlier. Mordred.

Arthur climbed to shaky feet. His thrust, from the position he’d been in, would have been far from his most powerful, yet Percival had no doubt it had been effective. And that was just as well, for from the look of the king, he wouldn’t have been able to strike again if he had first failed.

The positioning of everyone was curious, however. Mordred, from what Percival had understood, had meant to aid them, yet from where he, too, was now standing…. He had been fighting against them. The sword at his feet seemed to indicate as much, and the bloody piece of wood he clenched in his hands had come from the wound in his back, its bleeding no doubt stemmed by magic. No ordinary man would be foolish enough to remove the very object that was keeping his lifeblood inside of him, not without due cause. 

Dragoon—Emrys—was conspicuous by his absence, for all that the queen’s faith had caused Percival to expect him.

“She is a High Priestess of the Old Religion.” The voice, tight with pain and anger, was Mordred’s. His gaze was fixed firmly on Morgana. “It will take more than an ordinary blade to end her.”

“An ordinary blade is all it will take to cut off her head,” Elyan muttered. Percival silenced him with a touch on the arm. Their arrival had been too late, just as Elyan had feared the entire time it had taken them to travel here, and what was left of this fight was not theirs.

“I will consider that,” Arthur said, almost as if in reply to both Mordred and Elyan. But he held Mordred’s gaze, and he continued, “I still wish to make peace with your people, Mordred, but if you return to Camelot, I will punish you for the crimes you have committed here this day.”

Mordred’s eyes flickered over Merlin and Morgana before returning to Arthur. He drew himself up and stood tall despite his wounds, despite the pain he must be in. “You might as well just kill me. Emrys has certainly tried.” A slight glance in their direction, the first time Mordred had acknowledged any of them. “Merlin has certainly tried.”

Arthur’s grip on his sword tightened. “Leave, Mordred, and do not return.”

Mordred smiled now, a look too reminiscent of Morgana for Percival’s liking. “You cannot prevent what has already begun, Arthur Pendragon. You should embrace that which you cannot fight, as I have.”

“Leave,” Arthur repeated.

Mordred held his gaze for a moment longer before throwing out a hand in Arthur’s direction. Arthur flinched despite himself, and Percival surged forward along with Leon and Elyan, but before they’d taken more than two steps, Mordred had finished his spell and was gone—and Morgana with him.

Percival sincerely hoped that was the last he’d ever see of her—and if his initial judgement of the situation, of the power and placement of Arthur’s strike, had all been correct…. It would be.

But he would have felt more assured if the witch’s head had been severed from her body.

Arthur dropped his sword and immediately knelt to check on Merlin, heedless of Morgana’s blood marring the floor. Without out a word, Leon joined him, and Percival and Elyan turned their attention to Gwaine. Percival wasn’t sure how long he had been unconscious, but he had more than one nasty bump on his head. 

On closer inspection, however, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been; the blood which matted down the hair on the back of his head and smeared on the stone beneath it came from a shallow cut, and though swollen, Percival had seen enough of the like to know that if Gwaine rested for a few days and took whatever concoction Gaius could offer him, he’d been back in the tavern in no time. 

“His breathing’s normal,” Elyan observed, “and he’s still a good colour. Doesn’t have a fever. He should be fine.”

“With some more rest,” Percival agreed, but he shook Gwaine to rouse him now. He wanted one more assurance that Gwaine was as coherent and talkative as usual, and he’d be happy.

Gwaine groaned, rolling over to retch after first opening his eyes, but in very little time indeed, he had recovered enough to sit up and was looking very put out about missing what Percival suspected had been nearly as much of the fight as they had. “It was Mordred,” he complained, wiping at his mouth. “He’s in league with Morgana. I should’ve known, when Merlin didn’t trust him.” The words brought a frown to Gwaine’s face, and he asked, “Where is Merlin, anyway?”

“With Arthur.” Percival offered him a hand, and Gwaine pulled himself to his feet.

“He was in the same shape as you,” Elyan added. “Mordred’s alive, but from the amount of blood Morgana left behind when he took her with him, I don’t think she is.”

“I hope not,” Gwaine murmured, “but I don’t really want to underestimate her, either.” Raising his voice, he called, “How’s Merlin?”

Percival didn’t like how they didn’t receive an immediate answer, and when Gwaine broke out in a stumbling run to cross the room to see Merlin for himself, he and Elyan followed on his heels.

-|-

Guinevere couldn’t shake the bad feeling she had.

She told herself it was just because of their circumstances. She told herself that she had done all she could, that she just had to trust that the others had it in hand. She told herself that she had to stay put or that she might very well lose much more than her own life in her dance with death.

But she couldn’t have waited any longer.

Oh, she’d tried. But though the day had been long, though her body ached, though she wanted to escape into sleep…. She couldn’t. 

Of course, sneaking off on her own had been spectacularly unsuccessful, but she’d had enough of her wits about her to convince only _one_ of the watchmen to accompany her on her trip back to Camelot. The moon shone brightly now, but it was still difficult to see through the trees, and when they’d been a sufficient distance away, she’d used that to her advantage.

She wouldn’t have lost him if she hadn’t knocked him out, and she knew she wouldn’t have succeeded in that if he hadn’t trusted her and never expected such a thing, but if she’d been listening to sense, she wouldn’t have done it anyway.

But she was beyond simple reason now. She was following her gut. Something had prompted her to follow Elyan and the others in the first place despite her earlier resolve to stay put, some part of her that was no longer content to remain behind despite her trust in Emrys, and that same something was what kept her moving now.

She hoped she was as near to the outskirts of the lower town as she believed herself to be, for she could no longer convince herself that she wasn’t being followed. 

She hadn’t truly expected to knock her guard out for long, but she had hoped it would be for long enough that she’d be able to get away.

A quick sprint ended with her on the ground, ankle throbbing from where she’d tripped on the uneven ground. Or rather, Gwen realized as she explored it, the exposed root of one of the trees. Her ankle was tender, but she had helped Gaius long enough to know she hadn’t even sprained it. She stood tentatively and was relieved that she could put weight on it without too much throbbing, and she turned to press ahead.

“Gwen, hold on for a moment, won’t you?”

Gwen stopped, surprised. “Gaius?” she asked, seeing his shape take form out of the darkness. “You’re the one who’s been following me?”

“Someone needed to,” he said reproachfully, “and I thought you less likely to try knocking me out as well.”

She wondered how long her ruse had been undiscovered; not likely very long at all, from what Gaius was saying. “I need to get back to the castle,” she said, offering no other explanations, “so I’m going.”

“Morgana is there.”

“So is Arthur. And Emrys. And everyone else. Gaius, even if Morgana doesn’t kill them instantly, they’re going to need help. I don’t care how many men went or in how many groups. None of them know as much about tending the wounded as I do. We can’t always rely on Merlin for that; what if he’s the one who needs help?”

“I’m not going to stop you,” Gaius said softly. “I’m going to go with you.” He glanced upwards, and Gwen wondered if he was remembering what she was: the creature that had passed overhead. “I feared I would slow the knights down, but I daresay they will be happy to see the both of us when we arrive.”

“Even though Morgana is there?’ Gwen asked, trying not to smile. It wasn’t funny, not in the slightest, but it wasn’t often she could turn Gaius’s own words back on him.

“They will need our help,” Gaius said quietly, “even with Emrys fighting for them.”

Emrys.

Gwen pulled her borrowed cloak more tightly around her. _“You don’t know who he is,”_ Mordred had told her. _“He has another name as well.”_ Gwen hadn’t been able to shake off her curiosity then any more than she could her bad feeling now. She’d mulled over everything she knew for certain about Emrys along with everything she suspected about him, and she’d….

Unless she was very much mistaken, she’d worked it out.

It explained many things she’d seen over the years much better than any explanation she’d heard or assumed herself at the time.

And she understood why Gaius, now that he had tended to the wounded among them, was set to return to the castle even though he hadn’t stayed away a full day. 

“He’s always fighting for us,” Gwen said softly, “but sometimes we need to fight for him, too.”

Gaius looked at her sharply, and Gwen knew she wasn’t wrong.

She’d been such a fool earlier, not to see it until now. But she supposed that was just as well, for it had meant his survival. It had meant the survival of all of them—well, nearly all of them—in spite of everything they had faced. Because that secret meant a way to surprise Morgana, a way to defeat her, and Gwen…. 

Gwen knew, logically, that she might be going to her death. But although she never had before, she understood Arthur’s mindset now when he had done the very same time and time again. She was just one person. She could be wiped from this life in an instant if she was caught in a battle.

But she was going to try to protect people in the process.

She started walking again, ignoring the pain in her ankle. She needed to get to Arthur. If one of them was going to die, well…. It wasn’t her destiny to do everything the Druids believed Arthur would. If Morgana was to be believed, she’d already achieved her destiny: she’d married Arthur and had been crowned Queen Guinevere of Camelot.

But if one of their thrones was going to be empty, she would do her very best to make sure it wasn’t Arthur’s.

“You’re hurt,” Gaius observed after a moment.

“I’m fine,” Gwen said. “Nothing broken, nothing sprained. I can run if it comes to it. That’s all that matters.”

She could feel Gaius’s eyes on her, but he didn’t protest.

They moved in silence for a while longer before she said, “Gaius. The creature that passed over camp. You know what it was.”

“I have my suspicions,” Gaius conceded.

“It was a dragon.”

“I believe so.”

“But not Morgana’s, Not the one Leon reported had damaged the lower town.”

“It seems not.”

“Then is it…? Does that mean….?” She couldn’t find the right way to finish her thought. “Do you believe it flew to aid Morgana or to defeat her?”

Gaius said nothing for a long time. Finally, “Dragons are ancient, wild creatures. It is likely that the one Morgana befriended is young.”

He hadn’t answered her question. But she…. “The Great Dragon. Did Arthur truly slay it or is that what…is it…?”

She waited, but Gaius said nothing.

“How much of what I know is part of the lie? How much can’t I see?”

Gaius stopped, and Gwen turned to face him, pleading. He looked over and around her, ignoring her questions. “The tunnel entrance is just ahead. Once we reach it, we should keep quiet. We don’t want to risk being overheard.”

Gwen wanted to argue, but she knew better. She was being reckless right now, true, and she didn’t _want_ to be killed. She was just following her instincts—the same ones which had led her to this revelation, with a bit of prompting. But she knew Gaius well enough to know that if he didn’t want to answer her, he wouldn’t. “Very well,” she agreed softly, “but from there, once we’re on even ground, we run. I don’t want to waste any more time. There may not be any to spare.”


	33. Chapter 33

Gwen was clever. Unfortunately, she was just as stubborn as everyone else in Camelot seemed to be. That meant there would be no dissuading her, even though Gaius now knew she was in more danger than before if Morgana realized what Gwen had figured out.

Merlin wasn’t likely to thank him for returning, either, but as far as Gaius was concerned, he had fulfilled his obligations to the others when he’d tended to them. And with the knights returning as well, Morgana ought to be occupied enough without bothering to worry about an old man.

And Gaius had not liked how Merlin had sent him off, with all the talk of taking great risks, of sacrificing himself in the hope that Morgana wouldn’t go back on her word the moment he did.

Merlin was too important to do such things. But Gaius, who had much more of his life behind him than ahead of him, was not. 

The main reason Gaius was returning now, however, was the fact that Mordred had turned up. 

He knew how much Mordred’s presence alone would unnerve Merlin, and he didn’t like the idea of now being the time that the prophecies would begin coming true.

Merlin would need someone else to back him up. Gaius just hoped he wasn’t too late.

The sound of their footsteps brought one of the knights down to meet them, sword drawn until recognition settled upon his face. “Queen Guinevere? Gaius?”

“Where’s Arthur?” Gwen asked.

“Not here, my lady. We’ve swept the lower levels; Kay proposed we join Leon and the others, and we were going to move out once I reported back. But you should not—”

“I’m going with you,” Gwen said firmly, already moving to lead the way. “I need to see Arthur.”

“Morgana—”

“Even if Morgana’s with him,” Gwen said, cutting across the protests. “Even though I know what that means. I have to take the risk. I….” She trailed off, shook her head, and forged ahead.

She was intuitive. She wasn’t afraid of taking risks, though she usually favoured subtlety in their enactment. Gaius worried that she may have spent too much time with Arthur to still err on the side of cautiousness when it was necessary. 

And he worried more that she was right, for he couldn’t help but remember Merlin’s face as he’d repeated what the Great Dragon had told him so many years ago….

“We cannot let this come to pass now,” Gaius murmured, and he quickly followed in the path of Camelot’s true queen.

-|-

Merlin wasn’t breathing.

Arthur was sure of that now.

He wished he weren’t, because he’d much rather be wrong.

He also wished he knew what to do, but no amount of shoulder shaking or face slapping or back thumping seemed to be helping.

The chatter of suggestions blended into a blur. Arthur was painfully aware that Gaius and Merlin had thought there was nothing to be done to save the guard who had suffered the same fate at Morgana’s hands. He was even at the point where he wished that white dragon—Aithusa—would turn up again, because if dragons could heal, he’d give…. He’d do…. He _needed_ Merlin.

And now he didn’t have him.

What had ever happened to that cup, the chalice which had been used for both good and ill? If he recalled correctly, it had played a part in bringing Leon back from the brink of death. It could help now.

If he had it.

Which he didn’t.

And he certainly didn’t have time to find it.

This wasn’t right. It couldn’t be. He hadn’t even…. He still hadn’t even taken the time to thank Merlin. 

Arthur closed his eyes, aware that he was dangerously close to tears, but he couldn’t break down here, not in front of the knights. He had to be strong, for all of them. Because Merlin couldn’t be. Because he wouldn’t be waltzing in with a broad, idiotic grin on his face and a jibe on his lips for Arthur, something that would make the others laugh and break the tension. He wouldn’t support them all with his quiet faith or loyal declarations. He wouldn’t do something stupidly sacrificial that would save Arthur and see him….

“Arthur. Arthur, what happened? Where’s Morgana?”

Gwen? It was her voice. Arthur opened his eyes and blinked until the world came into focus again. His wife was peering at him closely, but even as he watched, she cast an anxious glance in Merlin’s direction. Someone else was bent over him now. _Gaius_ , Arthur’s mind supplied. When had he come back? Why was Guinevere here with him? Surely they hadn’t come with the rest of the knights for what must have been the rescue attempt?

“Morgana’s…gone,” Arthur said haltingly, willing his voice to work. “Mordred has her.” From the look on Gwen’s face, that wasn’t the news she had expected, but he had more important things to think about than that. “Gaius? Is Merlin….?” He couldn’t say it. He didn’t want to say it for fear that it wouldn’t be denied. He didn’t want saying it to make it true.

“He’s failing,” Gaius admitted at length. “I’ll need to get to my stores—”

“I still have some of your supplies,” Gwaine interrupted, turning out his pockets. “Does anything here help?”

_He’s not dead._ Arthur tried very hard not to let his immediate relief get his hopes up, but that was a good deal more difficult when Gaius reached for one of the herbs Gwaine had and, to Arthur’s surprise, lit it aflame with a simple word: “ _Forbærne_.”

For all that everyone in the room was very much aware that Gaius had once practised magic, Arthur wasn’t sure how many of them had ever seen him do it.

But that’s what this was, now. And it was more than just the first spell, for while Gaius held the smoking herb in one hand—the initial flame had died down now, though whether that was due to Gaius’s control of the spell or the condition of the herb, Arthur wasn’t sure—he was passing the other over Merlin’s chest in tandem with the first and chanting.

Healing magic. Gaius’s specialty, and possibly—though Arthur couldn’t be sure—the reason he had first secured the position of court physician. 

It was a blatant display of magic, and Arthur couldn’t care less.

This was one of the reasons he was intent to change his father’s laws, after all. Magic could be used to save. Arthur wasn’t sure how Gaius had known to come or by what stroke of fortune had ensured that he’d arrived before…before nothing was to be done, but now there was a chance, and Arthur was putting everything on that chance.

This might be magic, but this was also Merlin, with Gaius. Merlin practically embodied magic, from what Arthur understood. That had to count for something. And Gaius would do anything to save his ward. 

_Just…let this be the sort of healing magic where the cost isn’t another life._ Arthur was battle hardened, but this…. He didn’t want to lose anyone else right now. He hoped Gaius had the energy necessary to maintain the spell, and that Merlin…that Merlin had the strength to come back, with its help, since he hadn’t yet crossed.

Gaius’s chant faded, and Arthur moved closer to watch for some sign that Merlin was going to recover.

For a horribly long moment, no one moved—least of all Merlin.

And then Merlin coughed, and the colour returned to his face, and Arthur’s own breath came out in a rush.

It was magic fighting magic, and Morgana’s last effort hadn’t been her strongest. 

Merlin was still blinking groggily at the world when Arthur pulled himself into clear view. “You’re an idiot, Merlin,” he said affectionately. “Who’s going to polish my armour if you go and get yourself killed?”

And despite everything that had happened, Arthur knew it would all work out somehow when Merlin grinned at him in response.

-|-

Gwen didn’t tell anyone what she’d worked out. Not at first, anyway. Merlin, Gwaine, and everyone else who had sustained injuries—excepting her stubborn husband, of course, who was on his feet despite Gaius’s orders—was resting, and the rest of them were doing their best to get everything back to some semblance of order.

Kay and Bors had left early to fetch the others from the woods before parting ways and continuing on to Caerleon and Nemeth. Percival was overseeing the cleanup in the castle, Elyan (whose own injuries had been declared minor) in the lower town. Arthur had called an emergency council meeting despite getting little sleep, but they needn’t have worried.

Rumours had helped them into this mess, and that same gossip was providing a bridge by which they could escape it. Emrys’s appearance had not gone unmarked, nor had Morgana’s treatment of the sorcerer—or Arthur, for that matter. Those who would have argued against both mere days before now stated cases in their defence. 

_“They fought for Camelot,”_ some said. _“More would have died if it hadn’t been for them.”_ Morgana’s obvious disdain for them both was a point in their favour. _“The king would never ally himself with the witch,”_ others insisted—some of those the very same who had said the opposite not so long before. _“The sorcerer Emrys opposed her. He defended Camelot’s rightful king.”_

The white dragon had caused enough problems of its own, of course, but the fact that it had left and not returned…. Gwen was not the only one who had noted the appearance of what she suspected had been another dragon. The _how_ and _why_ behind all that was up for debate, of course, but there were more than a few who suspected Emrys’s involvement. After all, if Morgana could control a dragon, why not Emrys?

Gwen had seen Merlin sneaking back into the castle shortly before dawn first broke, though how he’d managed to go anywhere in his condition had been beyond her. But she had supposed that if Gaius had not forbidden it—or, more likely, if Merlin was stubborn enough to go in spite of that—then she would not question it, as it was undoubtedly for the best.

She’d not mentioned it to Arthur, but she didn’t need to.

The silence between them was not burdened by what was left unsaid but rather a sign of their strengthened understanding of each other and of the situation at hand. They didn’t need to define everything by words anymore.

Guinevere knew she couldn’t let the silence between them to continue to grow, however. While she understood Arthur’s earlier actions far better than she ever had before, he needed to know that he didn’t need to continue acting when it was just the two of them. He wasn’t terribly good at it, anyway, for all that she’d not realized precisely what was wrong nearly as quickly as she should have.

She waited until they took their supper that first day, insisting that she and Arthur eat together simply for the sake of being together—because for all that they fell asleep and woke up beside one another again, exhaustion from the busy days past meant the little sleep they could claim always seemed to preclude anything else. Merlin was still off, and George had not yet returned from Nemeth, but the serving boy who filled in for both of them did the job well despite his nervousness. He was even so brazen as to voice his thoughts—something Gwen encouraged more so than Arthur, despite the fact that the entire staff knew Arthur let Merlin get away with saying just about anything—and Gwen was glad for it, because Arthur needed to hear that the people supported him after all the uncertainty of earlier.

There were still dissenters, of course. They may never be entirely free of them, no matter how much good they tried to do. But their voices no longer held sway over the masses, and they were drowned out by supporters more often than not. The immediate danger had passed. Arthur by no means meant to push through any more amendments to the laws forbidding sorcery immediately, but the people knew his intentions, and the gradual changes should be accepted as introduced.

The knights who had witnessed Gaius’s healing of Merlin quite happily spread that story as they moved through the town to help with the rebuilding, and Gwen expected that had helped to convince those who had still been wavering. Merlin was well liked, his loyalty to Arthur unquestioned—as was Gaius’s—and the knowledge that magic had helped him survive where ordinary means would likely have failed….

It helped to emphasize what Arthur had said in his speech: small acts of magic could help as much as they could hurt, depending on how the magic itself was used.

Gwen suspected that some of the older citizens like Gaius who remembered the time before the Great Purge had finally stopped being ignored by those in her own generation who had never known anything but fear when it came to magic.

They’d received no word on Mordred’s whereabouts and, consequently, nothing on Morgana’s current state, but Gwen dared to hope that it was over.

They’d survived this much. It couldn’t get much worse, really, and there was so much more potential for it to get better.

Of course, she’d thought she’d seen the last of Morgana the last time, too, but it was best not to think like that.

“The mason suspects we may need to bring in new stone from the quarry entirely to repair what was destroyed in the corridor,” Arthur complained. They had dismissed the servant who had brought their food, and he had no need to put on a show for her about these matters. “And he thinks we’ll have to get it from the easternmost quarry or trade for it or we won’t have the right colour to match the rest of the stone. He’s sent someone off with fragments to check, but we may have to cordon it off for longer than we’d like. It may not be safe until everything’s replaced, although he won’t have a better estimate of that until we’ve managed to clear the last of the rubble.” Arthur groaned. “He suspects it’ll take a fortnight to replace it all, at best—and that’s if he doesn’t take the time to do the proper carvings, and if we don’t have to trade for the stone, and if everything else falls in our favour.”

Gwen’s lips quirked into a small smile. “A fortnight is unlikely, then,” she surmised.

“With our luck,” Arthur grumbled. He’d been in meetings the entire day while she had overseen the cleanup efforts, and Gwen suspected the council meeting may have been the least of Arthur’s worries.

Gwen waited until Arthur took a bite of his venison before saying, “You’ll have to tell the others about Emrys.”

She’d been hoping having a mouthful would stop Arthur from immediately protesting; instead, he choked and reached for his goblet. After a moment of spluttering, he gaped at her and said, “Tell _the others_?”

“Not everyone, of course,” Gwen said practically, picking up her own goblet to take a sip of wine. “A few of the knights—I intend to tell Elyan—and perhaps one or two of the councilmen, as necessity requires.”

“You intend—?” Arthur broke off. “How long have you—?”

Gwen put her goblet back on the table. “Not long. Mordred helped me realize it. Gaius confirmed it, though not intentionally. But it’s the only thing that truly makes sense. If nothing else, it explains why you were acting so distant to everyone when you found out—especially to Merlin. Although I would have hoped you would have listened to your instinct and not what you had been taught, for you had no reason to question Merlin’s loyalty to you.”

Arthur swallowed. “Does he…? Did you tell him…?”

“That I worked it out? Not yet. I will when we ask permission to tell some of the others.”

Arthur sighed. “Gwaine knows,” he admitted. “He’ll tell Percival and Leon and Elyan if we don’t.”

“He won’t if Merlin doesn’t want him to,” Gwen countered, “although I expect he’ll press for it, as we should. The situation has changed. You’ve changed it, Arthur. You may not have all the amendments lain out, but your hands won’t be tied by the laws now. Merlin could come forward if he wishes without repercussion.”

“Especially since Morgana and Mordred know as well,” Arthur murmured. 

Gwen looked at him sharply, but he offered no more comment of what had happened than the vague explanation he had given them all earlier in the throne room, the same one they had spread again to the others.

“The kingdom doesn’t have to be wrought with secrets,” she said softly.

Arthur raised his eyebrows at her for a moment before a serious expression settled again on his face, chasing away the surprise. “Every kingdom has secrets. It’s more a matter of ensuring that they are secure within the foundation rather than riddling it and weakening it than anything else.”

Gwen gave Arthur a pointed look; he knew she knew better than that. “I’m not saying the kingdom should be an open book to be read by anyone, enemies and allies alike. I do understand the value of secrets. But we needn’t pursue this one with those who deserve to know the truth.”

“And how do we make that judgement?”

“We don’t.” Gwen carefully cut off another piece of meat. “Merlin does, once we’ve explained our reasoning.”

She took a bite as Arthur dropped his own cutlery onto his plate. “He doesn’t want anyone to know.”

“And he had good reason, before. But how many people know of him now?” Gwen could read Arthur’s expression and knew he wasn’t sure whether or not to count Morgana out, so she ploughed on. “My point is, he needn’t hide now that things are changing. I’m not saying he should announce the truth to just anyone, but he doesn’t have to hide the truth from his friends.”

“It’s Merlin. He’s friends with almost everyone.”

“You know what I mean, Arthur.”

Arthur ran a hand through his hair. “ _I_ do, yes. But Merlin’s the one you need to convince, and he doesn’t _like_ taking credit for…all this.”

“A dislike born out of habit, I’d wager,” Gwen said, “for he could never take credit before.”

Arthur’s expression told her he was quite aware of this but didn’t like to dwell on it.

“We can’t do anything yet,” Arthur said. “It’s too soon. This calm may be too precarious.”

Gwen could read Arthur’s meaning easily enough: Mordred was still out there, even if Morgana was not, and they’d not yet had their meeting with the Druids.

She wondered how smoothly the relations would go now, in light of Mordred’s actions—and she wondered if they’d had any inkling of it and had done nothing to stop it.

But that was a question she suspected would not be answered even if she asked directly, and there were more important matters to attend to. “We’d have to go slowly,” Gwen agreed cautiously, “but we needn’t continue to stand still and expect the world to change around us when we know very well it won’t.”

“I’ve not done all I’m destined to do,” Arthur murmured. He pushed his plate away. “Very well. We’ll speak with Merlin. I’ve put it off for long enough as it is.”

-|-

“I feel fine,” Merlin protested.

“You need to eat,” Gaius said, gesturing at the soup, “and you need to rest. I know you’re young, Merlin, but I’m not about to let you sneak off again. Not on that leg of yours.”

“I needed to talk to Kilgharrah and Aithusa again. You know that. Morgana—” He broke off. “Aithusa and Kilgharrah agreed to remain together for now.”

Gaius fixed him with a look and said what Merlin really meant: “Despite dragons being solitary creatures, Kilgharrah has agreed to watch Aithusa, and you are assured that she will not immediately seek out Morgana.”

“I needed to be sure,” Merlin muttered. He’d heard what had happened, of course, and he had hope, for Arthur had used his sword—the sword burnished with dragon’s fire—and it wasn’t, as Mordred had thought, an ordinary sword. But he wasn’t keen on doing what he’d warned Gwaine against and underestimating Morgana. He wanted to know for sure.

And he’d be happier if he knew where Mordred was, too, which is why he’d asked Kilgharrah to keep an eye out, even though none of them were really ready to fight another battle.

“And now you are, so I am not about to let you out of my sight again.” Gaius pointed to the table, and Merlin reluctantly took a seat in front of the soup bowl. He swallowed a few spoonfuls to keep Gaius happy, but he wasn’t very hungry.

There was too much to be done to just be _sitting_ here.

Merlin was happy when the interruption came and Arthur and Gwen came in. He was less happy when he took in the looks on their faces. Seeing Gwen look so solemn, especially—it gave him a bad feeling.

He suspected he wouldn’t like what was coming.

After their greetings, Gwen slipped into the seat across from Merlin. She folded her hands neatly and said, quite simply, “I know the truth.”

Merlin was very glad he hadn’t had his mouth full of soup, for he may very well have choked on it, and he’d had enough of that to last him a lifetime. “The truth?” he repeated.

“I suspected as much,” Gaius said. At Merlin’s sharp look, he elaborated, “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“I’d have worked it out sooner if I’d had even sense to just think things through without any reservations. You really aren’t as subtle as you could have been, Merlin.” Gwen paused for a moment, as if she thought that enough time for him to digest that information, and then pressed on: “I think you should tell the others. Elyan, Leon, Percival—your friends need to know the truth, and it would be better if it came from your lips.”

Merlin had gone from simply feeling not hungry to feeling downright queasy. Sure, Gwen and Gwaine evidently were taking the truth much better than Arthur had, but outright admitting he had lied to his friends wasn’t the easiest thing to do, even if he had had ample reason for it.

“And it would be wise to let a few of the others know as well,” Gwen added. “Perhaps not immediately, but sooner rather than later. Even if you do not let it be common knowledge that you are indeed Emrys, it should at least be known that you act on his behalf—and that he did play as great a role as the rumours say in restoring Arthur to the throne.”

Merlin swallowed nervously and glanced at Gaius. He didn’t need to ask to know what Gaius thought. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and faced Guinevere again. “I’m not going to tell everyone who I am. Not right now. But—” and here he stole another look at Gaius, just to reassure himself “—I will tell those people who deserve to know, in private. I can trust them to keep their silence until the time is right.”

Arthur, who had stood silent behind his wife, finally spoke. “It may be a long time before I’ve seen all those changes through. Even with the majority of the people behind me again, there will still be dissent.”

“I never said there wouldn’t be. But I don’t doubt you’ll see those changes come to pass, Arthur. I never did.” Well, perhaps he had right at the start, because he’d thought Arthur would never change from being the arrogant prat he was, but Arthur didn’t need to know that quite yet. 

Arthur sighed and took a seat beside Gwen. “My destiny is inescapable, is it?”

Merlin, whose thoughts had immediately jumped to Mordred, dearly hoped that wasn’t true of him—even knowing it likely meant stopping Mordred’s destiny lay with him. But he made sure those thoughts didn’t show on his face and instead grinned. “Well, you _do_ have me to keep you on the right track.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “You know you have a lot of explaining to do. The dragon?”

Merlin winced. “Which one?”

“Which—?” Arthur looked as if his worst fears had been confirmed. “Merlin! Haven’t I succeeded in _anything_ without your help?”

“Well—”

“Don’t answer that,” Arthur snapped. Gwen gave him a sideways look, and he relented. “We need to have a long talk when you’re feeling better,” he warned.

“Which is what I’ve been telling you since you sent me to Ealdor.”

Arthur glared at him, and Merlin felt better—because Arthur’s glaring was normal, and he liked that things were back to normal between the two of them. “Just…thank you,” Arthur ground out. “And try not to get killed if you keep trying to save me.”

Merlin’s grin spread. “Sorry? I didn’t quite catch that first bit.”

Gwen laughed, and Merlin felt happier than he had in days. His secret might not have been as closely guarded as before, but he felt the same sort of relief he had when Will had first found out back in Ealdor. He didn’t intend to tell everyone in Camelot who Emrys really was—no need to give any enemies unrelated to Morgana or Mordred or magic in general a clear target—but the others were right. He didn’t need to keep everything from his friends.

Certainly not now, when there was change on the wind. It’s not as if any of them were going to take it worse than Arthur had. Besides, it would be good not to have to hide his magic from them.

And it may very well save some of their lives.

He’d long worried that he wouldn’t know when the time was right, and he had shied away from the very idea at first. But the situation was different now than it had been a mere month before, and even he could recognize that. Change was here. Arthur, who was already in the process of drawing up treaties with the remaining nations—or at least contemplating it, where the more ruthless nations like Amata were concerned—had finally begun doing what Merlin had wished for since he’d come to Camelot: repealing Uther’s laws.

It would take time, yes. It would be a lot of work as well, and Merlin would have to brace himself for all of Arthur’s inevitable complaints, but it would happen. The time of which he’d spoken to Gilli was closer to being realized than ever before.

Arthur would fulfill his destiny and he, his; and at last the Golden Age that had been prophesied would begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is technically the end, folks! I think I'm going to write up a quick extra scene with Mordred to satisfy curiosity, and then I'll toss up the alternate version of chapter thirty (where Merlin goes to speak with Mordred) for those of you who are interested in that. Thanks to everyone who has been following this story, and especially to those of you who took the time to say something about it along the way!


	34. Bonus: Extended Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more of an extended ending than anything else; the alternate version of chapter thirty will follow.

It had not been an ordinary sword.

Mordred bandaged his wound slowly. He’d washed it, used a few of the herbs he had on his person, and chanted any number of healing spells, but ultimately all he could do was stem the blood flow and only begin to deaden the pain. But it was more than he could do for the lady Morgana.

Mordred was not sure Arthur’s strike had been meant to kill him; the king was proving to have a soft heart in some of these matters, and in all likelihood he still considered Mordred a child. Even considering he would have jerked at the blast, interrupting his momentum and throwing off his aim, the sword had only bitten into Mordred’s side. Perhaps the king had meant to strike lower, to tear into softer flesh, but the result had been a haphazard score along Mordred’s ribcage.

It was painful.

It was not deadly.

 _“They are just stories.”_ That was what Arthur believed, and likely it was what had tempered his actions. 

They weren’t, though. They never were. Emrys was not wrong in thinking that destinies could only be stopped with death. If allowed to proceed, what was foretold would come to pass, one way or another. 

_“I need to protect Arthur.”_

Emrys knew that, knew what he must do to preserve Arthur’s destiny. He could have slain Mordred at any time had he truly wished it. As a Dragonlord, he could surely command the dragons to search for them, to make quick work of this mess, to end things here, now.

But all Mordred could hear as he rested was his own ragged breathing and his heart pounding in his ears. The forest was quiet, startled to silence by his sudden appearance with Morgana and not yet comfortable with their poisonous presence.

Emrys had never truly tried to kill him—not directly, not even when Mordred really had been a child—any more than Arthur had.

Any more than he had Arthur.

They had all merely tried to stop each other.

Mordred closed his eyes, hating his dark destiny. He would slay Arthur Pendragon. The moment he made any attempt to fulfill his destiny, Emrys would no longer hesitate. Mordred rather thought death might be preferable to the future he would bring, but he was not ready to give up his life. Not for this. He would fight, if he had to.

And he would, for he knew avoiding it would mean nothing. It would merely lead him along a different path, but the end would be the same if he was not interrupted. 

It may be more horrible for his defiance, however. The twisted path might delay the inevitable, but it certainly would not make the outcome any better for those who wished otherwise. It surely would have been better for Arthur himself—quicker and less painful—if Mordred had acted then. Emrys would have found the strength to try to stop him, he was sure, but he did not know if he would have been quick enough to be successful in the attempt.

And then Morgana might….

 _She didn’t deserve this._ The thought was fierce, bitter. It was the hand she had been dealt. It was inevitable.

But the stories had not been entirely wrong. Morgana had changed; she’d embraced the darkness. She’d revelled in it, but she could not always mask the woman she had been; he had caught a glimpse of her, the Morgana the others no doubt thought was gone forever. In truth, she’d simply become lost, misguided. As he had been.

As he still was.

Arlen and Elowen had let him come to the castle. They had let him meet his destiny. They had known. Perhaps they all had known. Perhaps that was why, after the death of his parents, he had found his acceptance to be grudging at best. It had never been a fear of his raw power, of his initial lack of control. It had been a fear of who he might truly be, of who he would grow up to become.

He had never more wished that there was truth in Arthur Pendragon’s ignorant words, never more wished that prophecies were nothing more than stories, but he would be a fool to think so. He would not be in control if he did. He had little enough control over his future as it was; he dared not relinquish any of it.

But if he did not blithely wait for death or destiny, then he would be fighting every moment for life.

As long as he breathed, Emrys would see him as a threat to Arthur. No doubt he would tell the king what he had failed to understand from Mordred himself, and all of Camelot would be out for his head. His life threatened that of their king’s.

Arthur’s, then, threatened Mordred’s—and he was the disadvantaged one, not knowing from where the attack might come.

Mordred tore his eyes open again and looked at Morgana, seeing her more clearly in the dull, grey light that promised the coming morning. Blood stained her dress, grit and grime from their arrival still marred her features, all of it standing out in stark contrast with her too-pale skin, and the rotting undergrowth of the forest had become ensnared in her hair. Glassy eyes, glazed in death, looked blankly back at him.

They mocked him, reminded him of what was in his own future if he did not fight for his life.

“You didn’t deserve this,” Mordred told her. “Neither of us do.” But in embracing the darkness, she had allowed it to consume her, and he knew there was no light in his future. He needed to survive. He would do anything to survive.

He was too cowardly to freely sacrifice himself and too afraid to seek out anything that might help Morgana now that she had passed into death, for he knew their twisted consequences, the costs of use. The Cup of Life, the Horn of Cathbhadh…. None of that would help him. None of that would truly help her. All he could do now was grant her dignity in death.

Moving slowly but methodically, Mordred began to collect stones for the grave. He used magic only for that which he could not otherwise do. It would take Arthur time to organize his men into a search party, and longer still for any to reach this place. His main worry was being spied from above, for Emrys’s control of dragons was not a pleasant revelation, but he was not certain even Emrys could recover very quickly from Morgana’s touch. But he had chosen a part of the forest where the trees grew thick, the only clear path the one sliced by the stream. He would be hard to spot, even by the keen eye of a dragon.

That assurance was well worth the hassle of the branches and roots, the difficulty of finding suitable stones. 

But Morgana deserved a resting place that was not as devoid of light as Mordred’s new quarters would be, for he did not think her spirit was entirely lost to it. He would not have caught a glimmer of the woman he had once known if she were.

He began long before that first glow of the morning had blazed into the sunrise, but he was not finished weaving the final spells over the makeshift grave until the high sun had long burned off the mist over the water.

He must embrace his destiny to survive, so he would walk in the darkness that came with it for now. Hiding in the shadows had served Emrys well for a very long time; it would be little different for Mordred. He simply needed to be careful, to be patient. And waiting was becoming something he was very good at.

“I shall never forget,” Mordred vowed. Placing one hand on the topmost stone of Morgana’s grave, he whispered his final promise to her: “And I shall return.”

-|-

Merlin waited until the other knights had heard Gwaine’s story enough times that they could practically finish his sentences when he began telling it again—ever-changing embellishments aside, of course.

He knew they’d accepted Emrys—grudgingly, in Elyan’s case—as a force for good. It was stories like Gwaine’s that had helped to convince the rest of Camelot’s people. Word still hadn’t gotten out that _he_ had magic, but more than a few servants had clearly seen that Emrys was Morgana’s captive, and no doubt the sheer amount of destruction in the throne room had helped to corroborate Arthur’s story that Emrys’s magic had been key in the fight against Morgana.

This hadn’t saved Merlin from an earful in private about how _difficult_ it was going to be to find the right wood to replace the doors. Still, since he knew Arthur’s complaining was part of his coping, he’d accepted it in his usual way: snide, tongue-in-cheek remarks and a wide grin while ducking to avoid whatever object was flying his direction.

But since Gwen had taken to giving him more pointed looks than Gaius, Merlin really didn’t want to put it off too much longer. He’d been hoping to put it off long enough until he figured out the best way to tell them, but he’d come to realize that there was no perfect moment or perfect way. And he just needed to be truthful before the truth became any harder to tell.

Now, the councilmen…. Arthur and Gwen had drawn up a list of ‘will likely need to know’, at least at _some point_ over the course of Arthur’s amendments, but Merlin wasn’t going to think about that too much quite yet. Better they be content to believe Emrys is solely what he appears to be for now, since it’s not as if Arthur was going to create a position of court sorcerer or some such thing for him any time soon.

Since it was becoming common enough knowledge that Arthur had a sorcerer protecting him and Camelot anyway, Merlin wasn’t going to kick up a fuss. Anonymity still gave him freedom of movement, after all, and Arthur had proposed that he could start sharing more of his tasks with George under the guise of dedicating more time toward being Gaius’s apprentice. This would come with a number of long-suffering remarks that were George’s equivalent of teasing, for he’d been hoping for this day for _years_ , but as far as Merlin was concerned, he’d proven his loyalty. He deserved to have his position edge more into ‘official’ from ‘unofficial replacement’.

And then, if Arthur ever did see fit to promote Merlin, perhaps George would have learned to properly joke by then.

If he didn’t, well, at least Merlin would derive some amusement from Arthur’s suffering.

Of course, thinking about all that, about what might happen, didn’t make _this_ any easier.

Arthur had agreed to gather everyone together on Merlin’s request, arranging for them all to meet around the round table. The symbolism was not lost on Merlin, although he didn’t expect the others to realize its significance immediately. As far as they knew, the meeting would be like the last ones that had been held there—something focusing on the recovery efforts, assessing the latest stories floating around the marketplace, those sorts of things. And, in a way, it was about all that. Because if they were going to move forward….

It really shouldn’t be so hard to tell the truth about something like this, but it wasn’t something Merlin thought he would ever get used to.

“The mason’s been in about the new stone,” Leon commented when they were all assembled.

“That’s not what this is about,” Gwaine said cheerfully. He looked at Merlin and grinned. “Am I right?”

Merlin shifted his feet, uncomfortable, but finally took his place at the table, placing the pitcher of wine—some of Arthur’s better stuff, which Merlin had taken without asking in anticipation of their needing it—off to one side. “It’s about Emrys,” he said.

“So Arthur told you what he wouldn’t tell the rest of us,” Elyan guessed, glancing at Arthur, “and now we get to hear the whole story?”

Merlin bit his lip, wished he’d asked Gaius to be here to support him even though he knew he was still busy with the villagers, and nodded.

Arthur jerked, shot a glance at Gwen who was smiling in a way that made Merlin suspect she’d kicked him under the table, and put in, “Remember: if it weren’t for Emrys, it’s unlikely that we’d be sitting here right now. From what Gwen said, the delegation from the Druid people will be arriving within a day or two. It’s best you know the truth before that, so we can prepare for any eventuality.”

“Any eventuality?” Elyan repeated, his tone making it clear he didn’t like the sound of that.

“We haven’t any idea how they’ll react in light of Mordred’s actions and ours,” Gwen reminded him pointedly.

Elyan rolled his eyes. “All right, fine. So what’s the story?”

“It’s Merlin,” Gwaine said, before Merlin could even say a word.

That…wasn’t how he’d ever imagined telling the others, mostly because every scenario he’d thought of had involved _him_ actually telling them. Or perhaps showing them.

“So it’s Merlin’s story, then,” Elyan said, switching his gaze to Merlin. “What’s this about Emrys?’

Merlin swallowed and then decided that if Gwaine had effectively just told them, he might be better off showing them. He brought his hands up to his mouth, cupped them and whispered, “ _Gewyre an lif_.” He pointedly did not duck his head or close his eyes, though he didn’t raise them, either, because he didn’t want to see the look on Elyan’s face, or Leon’s, or Percival’s. He wanted one last moment of sameness before he left his usual façade behind completely.

But almost immediately, he could feel the tiny, delicate wings beat against his palms for a second before stilling, and he knew he could wait no longer.

He lowered his hands, raised his eyes, and released the butterfly. It fluttered upwards for a moment, lazily, freely, before coming to land on a colourful tapestry on the nearest wall. Merlin watched it, but he could feel the eyes of the others on him. The butterfly was beautiful, but its creation would tell the others more than he could in words. 

It wasn’t just an animation, and it wasn’t a creature of smoke or flame. It was _substantial_ , _real_. It was a spell which created another life. A small one, admittedly, and nothing that would disrupt the balance, but it was a complex spell. Even those ignorant of the magical arts would be able to realize that. 

“It’s the same colour as your eyes,” Gwen exclaimed, and her voice held a note of awe despite how much she already knew. “You put a piece of yourself in it. It’s beautiful, Merlin.”

“That is not simple magic,” Percival said quietly.

“It’s not destructive, either,” Gwaine pointed out. “It just…is, I guess. Like the spell that turns things into flowers.”

Merlin allowed himself a small smile at the memory. “Yes,” he agreed softly. “It just is.”

There was silence for a few seconds before Leon broke it with something that was more statement than question. “You’ve had magic for a long time.”

“I was born with it.” He didn’t need to explain why he’d kept it a secret; they knew. Arthur still wanted explanations—more explanations, anyway—and Merlin still planned to give them. Eventually. After all, Arthur needed them. But Gwaine, Merlin had realized, did not. Not really. And he rather suspected the other knights would be the same, once they got over their shock.

They would _want_ them; they wouldn’t _need_ them.

That didn’t mean he wouldn’t fill them in on a few hilarious anecdotes, though. He’d just skim over the times he’d nearly gotten himself killed.

“And that’s why you know Emrys? Because you have magic?” It was Elyan this time, and he could not hide his emotions as well as Leon or even Percival. It wasn’t just the hurt of the secret that Gwaine had felt most keenly, but it was also the confliction that had plagued Arthur when it came to reconciling new facts with old beliefs.

And now was the time Merlin would usually twist his words, but the time of speaking easier lies and half-truths was behind him, at least where those present were concerned. 

But that didn’t make saying any of this any simpler.

“Not exactly,” Merlin hedged. “Emrys….” He broke off. “Until Mordred first came to Camelot, I didn’t know who Emrys was. I’d never heard his name before. But I knew his destiny since _I_ first came to Camelot because, well….”

“Emrys is the name the Druids call him,” Gwen supplied softly. “It’s not the name by which he is known.”

There was a pause before Percival prompted, “And the name by which he _is_ known?”

“Merlin,” Arthur said bluntly, clearly thinking Merlin was taking far too long to get to the point. 

Merlin counted three breaths before Leon broke the silence, three breaths before it became clear to the others that Arthur hadn’t simply been prompting him to speak. “Merlin?” Leon asked, an incredulous, disbelieving smile on his face, as if he thought—or hoped—the others were playing a joke on him. He glanced at Gwaine, which solidified Merlin’s suspicion.

“Merlin,” Gwaine said firmly, confirming Arthur’s words and dismissing Leon’s idea simultaneously. 

“It wasn’t safe to tell you before,” Merlin said, hating the hurt confusion that settled on the faces of the other knights as they realized that Gwaine had known what they had not. “But with Arthur’s changes….” He broke off and offered them a small smile, something dismal compared to his usual grin. “You deserved to know, now that you could.” _Now that it wouldn’t be treason to keep it from everyone else_ , though Merlin knew he didn’t need to voice that bit.

Elyan was the first to snap. “We could have been told before,” he argued. “You didn’t have to keep lying to us, telling us you’d kill Arthur—”

Gwen’s mouth had just opened, but it was Percival who cut Elyan off simply by placing a hand on his shoulder. “We don’t know the whole story,” he said quietly. “Merlin had a good reason to say that, I’m sure, just as he did for every other lie he told.”

The words were said in defence, but the pain was clear enough, and it hurt Merlin in turn. “I did,” he promised. “I never wanted anyone to get hurt….” He trailed off, seeing the looks the knights were giving him—Gwaine included—and amended, “Well, not _seriously_ hurt. And—”

“Our ignorance protected us,” Gwen put in.

“Until it became too dangerous to not know the truth, at least,” Gwaine added.

Gwen and Gwaine were trying to help him, but they didn’t know the whole story. They didn’t really understand how dangerous this was. Morgana…. She and Mordred weren’t the only ones who had ever had anything against him. How could he hope to protect his friends when they were ready to charge into the situation without fully understanding it? It was hard enough to protect Arthur; he didn’t need the rest of them making a habit of it.

Although he would probably be in worse shape than he was if Gwen and Gaius hadn’t decided to risk their lives to come back when they had.

“Morgana tortured Gaius,” Merlin said quietly, though the admission still made him feel ill with guilt, “because she suspected he knew Emrys’s true identity. Gaius has magic himself, and he is strong, but she still….” He took a shaky breath. “It was never just about Camelot’s laws. I couldn’t let that happen to any of you. Not because of _me_.”

“All those times you tried to warn us.” It was Leon now. “All those things you claimed but couldn’t prove because it was just a feeling. All of our miraculous luck.” He paused. “I would not be sitting with you here were it not for magic. I’ve my misgivings, Merlin, but you still have my trust. I suspect you have saved my life more than I have yours.”

Merlin stared at Leon, hardly daring to believe what he’d heard. Of those present, Leon had been around the longest; he was arguably one of the knights closest to Arthur himself, and he had had the most similar upbringing. He had expected Leon to look on him in disgust, as Arthur had.

But magic _had_ saved Leon’s life in the past, and not all that magic had been Merlin’s own. Had the Druids not given him a drink from the Cup of Life, he would have crossed the brink into death. There had been so many lives lost on that mission, yet Leon had— _with the aid of magic_ —returned to tell their tale. 

“Your amendments to your father’s laws will save more lives than just Merlin’s, sire,” Leon added as he switched his gaze to Arthur. “I am heartened that recent events have not shaken your conviction.”

“And I am pleased that you all share it,” Arthur returned, “and that you all appear to have forgiven me as well for my secret keeping.”

“We trust your judgement,” Percival reminded him, “just as we trust Merlin’s character. Is that not right, Elyan?”

Elyan still looked sullen, but he clearly could see his misgivings were not shared by the majority. _If only he’d seen how Arthur had reacted._ Merlin didn’t want to push the knight, though. He didn’t expect instant acceptance after this. “If you need time—”

“It’s not that.” Elyan blew out a breath. “I just…. I don’t know. I just didn’t _expect_ it, I guess. Not after Emrys—after you—threatened Arthur.”

“We wouldn’t have believed the truth,” Gwaine reminded him, “and Merlin hadn’t the time to try to convince us.”

“I know that,” Elyan muttered. “You just seemed like two different people. I find it a lot easier to believe you have magic than that you’re Emrys.” Catching the look Gwaine was giving him, Elyan made a face. “Maybe I do just need a bit of time. I’m not…. I don’t think I’m angry, exactly. Percival’s right. Leon’s right. You’re all right. It’s just…. Even when we were joking about who Emrys might really be, we never even considered….”

“Our greatest clue did not come until the end,” Percival said quietly, holding Merlin’s gaze, “when the elderly sorcerer we thought to be Emrys did not appear to be present in your final battle with Morgana.”

Elyan blinked. “You knew, too?”

“No. I simply began to wonder.”

Merlin frowned. “Is it really that easy to put it all together?” he asked, wondering if his secret had come out to more people than he’d realized. It wasn’t _necessarily_ a bad thing anymore—his most worrisome enemies already knew his secret, and Arthur wasn’t going to be pressured to put sorcerers to death now—but suddenly having a lot of people know just felt…disquieting. After keeping it a secret for so long, he wanted to control its release.

If it spread too far—especially if it spread out of Camelot—then he’d be looking a very different set of dangers, not the least of which was the sort his mother had feared could be realized if he’d been discovered in Ealdor and, potentially, by Cenred. It could even threaten the peace Arthur was trying to build, especially if one of the rulers accused him of using the threat of Merlin’s power as a bargaining chip.

Arthur snorted, clearly dismissing any similar thoughts he had—if he’d even considered their possibility. “You’re a better actor than I ever gave you credit for, Merlin. It’s all incredibly obvious when I look back on it, but I never suspected any of it until I did.”

Leon chuckled, the rare sound chasing away Merlin’s pessimistic thoughts for the moment. “I would have to say the same is true of most people who know you here. When we have all seen you covered in manure or tripping over your own feet, the thought of you being a powerful sorcerer tends not to cross our minds.”

Merlin shrugged. “Putting in an honest day’s work hasn’t killed me yet,” he said. With a sideways glance at Arthur, he added, “Even if Arthur’s tried.” Even Elyan cracked a smile at that one—although that might have been in response to Arthur’s scowl—and Merlin explained, “Having magic doesn’t change me; having magic completes me. I’ve always been clumsy, and I doubt that will ever change. But if I didn’t have magic…. I’d feel its loss, every day, and I wouldn’t be the same person if I’d never had it at all.” He paused. “I don’t use it for everything, though.”

“But he can mend and clean clothes with it,” Gwaine put in, “so, Arthur, he’s probably saved your favourite tunic from being turned into rags.”

Merlin sighed. “I don’t use my magic to clean Arthur’s clothes.”

“Never?”

“Well, once, but only because wine was spilt all down the front of his shirt just after I’d cleaned it and he _needed_ it that day.” Merlin hesitated. “And then there was the other time—”

“We get the idea,” Arthur said abruptly, cutting him off. He could no doubt read the smirks on the knights’ faces as easily as Merlin could and was attempting to head off the inevitable teasing, though in truth he’d have to suffer through it anyway. Merlin was glad of it, though. Not just because Arthur deserved all the teasing he ever got—though he certainly did—but because if they were teasing about it, then it meant they were comfortable enough with the subject to do so. That alone meant the world to Merlin.

Arthur’s next words, however, brought him sharply back to the reality of the situation—and reminded him just how many secrets were still untold. “What I’d really like to know, now that you’ve decided to share your secrets, is why you can talk to dragons.”

Merlin winced, but he’d known Arthur wasn’t going to let that subject lie for long, and with Gwaine witnessing him speaking with Aithusa, he might have pieced that part of the truth together already. “I’m a Dragonlord,” he admitted softly.

“A Dragonlord,” Arthur repeated, sounding almost as if he didn’t believe it. “And you still let us go off searching for one when Camelot was being attacked by the Great Dragon? Why didn’t you just sneak out of the castle one night and go tell it to stop? Clearly you’re capable of that.”

“Because I wasn’t a Dragonlord then.” He really hadn’t wanted to talk about this now.

Arthur made a face. “How does _that_ work? How can you suddenly be something you weren’t before?”

“It’s an inherited gift.” The answer came from Percival. “I know the stories. It passes from father to son upon death. I am sorry, Merlin.”

Arthur huffed. “That still doesn’t make any sense. The only Dragonlord left was Balinor, and he—” Arthur broke off, eyes widening as the realization set in. Merlin didn’t say anything, instead watching Arthur’s mouth work as he tried to spit out the words. Finally, “Balinor. _He_ was—?”

Merlin swallowed but kept his chin up and looked Arthur in the eye. “He was a great man.” Merlin closed his eyes against the sudden sting of tears. “And he was my father.”

“Oh, _Merlin_.” Merlin opened his eyes at the pressure on his hand, seeing Gwen leaning across Arthur to give it a comforting squeeze. _They were there for him and would be no matter what the future brought._ “We didn’t know.”

“You couldn’t,” Merlin said softly as Gwen sat up again, the double meaning of his words clear to those present. There was no way they could have possibly known—he never had until Gaius had told him—and he would never have been able to tell them the truth before now.

Arthur sighed and surprised Merlin by grabbing the pitcher of wine and pouring a gobletful himself. But instead of drinking deeply, he set the drink in front of Merlin with enough force to nearly slosh the liquid out of the cup. He was still tense, still unsure of himself, still slightly uncomfortable with everything but willing to put that aside because he’d come to realize that he could still trust Merlin. 

It almost made Merlin smile.

“Drink,” Arthur ordered, “and then start from the beginning.”

This time, Merlin did smile. “The _very_ beginning?” Arthur didn’t contradict him quickly enough, so Merlin launched into his explanation: “Well, Mum always said she knew there was just something about me from the very moment I was born—”

“ _Mer_ lin!”

The table erupted into laughter, and Merlin hid his grin behind his wine.


	35. Alternative Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a friendly reminder that this is _not_ a continuation of the story but rather the chapter that could have been (in the place of Chapter 30).

Morgana heard the frantic footfalls before she saw Merlin slip into the throne room. He had never looked her way, too intent on his destination to think of anything else. But she had seen what he had with him: Emrys’s staff. The one she’d left in Aithusa’s care.

Emrys had tamed the beast, and now she saw nothing wrong with betraying the one who had been her companion these past two years.

Morgana quickened her steps. Perhaps Gwaine and Arthur had thought they would hide Emrys in the throne room, that she wouldn’t again search where she had already looked. And Merlin had been sent to fetch the one thing Morgana was sure would help. Emrys must have told him where to look, must have told him what to say to sooth Aithusa. 

He clearly must be more coherent than Morgana had hoped.

The doors weren’t tightly shut, and Morgana paused just outside of them, listening. She had expected to hear Merlin. She’d expected to hear Emrys, Arthur, or Gwaine. She hadn’t expected to hear Mordred.

“Just tell me why. That’s all I ask.”

“It’s complicated.” Merlin’s voice, spouting the expected excuses for whatever he—or perhaps Emrys, if Merlin was speaking for him—had done to wrong Mordred. 

“How can it be complicated? I just…. What had I done to make you—?” The frustration in Mordred’s voice was clear. “You betrayed me.”

“You don’t understand.” Merlin’s voice was pleading. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Merlin was no different from Emrys. And if he was going to continue to help the old sorcerer, Morgana didn’t need to listen to Merlin’s pathetic excuses. She began whispering her spell even before she slipped into the throne room. Mordred spotted her instantly, his widening eyes giving Merlin the only warning he had. 

By the time Merlin turned to face her, Morgana had already sent off a blast of fire in his direction. Before he had time to even _think_ about conjuring a shield and blocking its path, she sent him flying and effectively separated him from Emrys’s staff.

She’d underestimated Merlin in the past; she didn’t want him to have any help it might give him.

Morgana picked the staff up, feeling its power reacting to hers and pulsing beneath her fingertips. She should never have let it out of her sight. “Mordred,” she asked, though she kept her eyes fixed on Merlin, “with whom do you stand?”

Mordred didn’t answer her. 

Merlin scrambled to his feet. He looked more tired than she felt, but she supposed if he had been running after Emrys all this time, he had reason to be. “I didn’t have a choice,” he whispered. He was staring at her, not Mordred, but she wondered if his words were for both of them.

He’d wronged her, after all. He’d tried to kill her.

It was beyond time she repaid the favour.

Morgana’s grip tightened on the staff. “You always have choices, Merlin. You just make the wrong ones.” At her word, lightning arced from the staff.

To her surprise, Merlin was quick. He threw up a hand and the lightning split against his shield. She hadn’t thought he could conjure anything so strong. When he dropped his hand, however, his exhaustion was written even more clearly across his face. 

“Morgana, _please_.”

He was pleading. How pathetic. But clearly he didn’t have the strength to fight her or he’d at least put on a better show.

“You’re no better than Emrys, Merlin, when you do his bidding blindly.” Morgana turned her head. “Mordred? Have you chosen?”

Mordred looked like the boy he was, torn and terrified. She’d wanted support in this fight, but looking at him now, she wasn’t sure he could give it even if he was willing. He was in over his head. “I….” Mordred shook his head. “This is not my fight, my lady.” He stepped back, and she trusted him only enough to be confident that he would not attack her. 

She wanted to trust him more, but she could not when he would not even make his allegiance known.

“You have to stop, Morgana.” Merlin again, his voice cracking on her name. “This doesn’t have to end now.”

“Doesn’t it?” Morgana sneered. “It must end sometime, and I’ll gain nothing from waiting.”

“I’ll fight you, if you don’t stop.”

Morgana smirked at the boast. “You haven’t the strength.”

Rather than backing down, Merlin’s face hardened. She should have expected no less from him, given what she knew he had faced in the past. “You don’t know how much strength I have.”

“You hardly have the strength to stand,” Morgana shot back. “ _Ástríce_!”

“ _Sclidan_.” Shield spell after shield spell. He was not living up to his word if he was only going to defend himself, but she supposed she could be impressed that he could still conjure one in his pitiful state. “Morgana, I don’t _want_ to fight you. Don’t make me.”

Morgana snorted. “You’re little better than a child, Merlin. I am not making you do anything. You simply don’t want to fight me because you know you’ll lose.”

Merlin shook his head. “You don’t know what I can do.”

“Morgana.” Mordred spoke her name very quietly, but she had no trouble hearing him. She also didn’t miss the flash of fear to cross Merlin’s face, and she knew Mordred had information Merlin wanted to keep from her. 

Quite possibly, Emrys’s location.

“Listen to him,” Mordred said softly. “He’s right. This doesn’t need to become a fight.”

“It’s already a war,” Morgana snapped. “You should know that, Mordred. Your people are caught in the middle of it.”

“Only if you make sure to keep us there,” Mordred pointed out.

“This war’s been raging since before you were born. The slaughter began the moment Uther sought to rid Camelot of magic. I just want to finish it.”

“By killing more people?” Merlin accused. “That’s what you’re doing, Morgana. That’s what you’ve done!”

“And Emrys is better, is he?” Morgana scoffed.

Merlin blanched. “He…he tries to do the right thing,” Merlin argued weakly. “He’s only trying to help!”

“To help,” Morgana repeated. “To help kill. To help extend the slaughter. To help destroy the few remaining traces of magic that survived Uther’s purge. Is that your idea of helping, Merlin? You are the only person with magic he _has_ helped. He abandoned the rest of us!”

Merlin shook his head, his lips already forming his denial, but Morgana ignored him. He wouldn’t still be trying to get her to talk if he thought he could win a fight, and she tired of indulging him. If Emrys wasn’t here, she would find out where he was. And if Merlin wouldn’t tell her, then perhaps Emrys would have enough sympathy to save his lackey from certain death.

Assuming the old sorcerer was even well enough to scry, which she rather doubted.

“ _Ligfyr_ ,” she called, and flames sprang up from the stone at her command.

Merlin glowered at her from behind the wall of fire. “ _Færblæd wawe_ ,” he commanded, his eyes burning brighter than she had expected them to as the wind rushed through the room and swept her spell away. The gold hue faded from Merlin’s eyes, and he said, with the steel still in his voice, “You must stop, Morgana, or you won’t _give_ me a choice.”

Morgana opened her mouth to retort, but a clatter at the doorway caught their attention and they all turned as Arthur and Gwaine stumbled into the room. The fools both wore swords, and Morgana smirked. They could do so little once she disarmed them. “ _Fleorge seax forþ_.” 

Arthur and Gwaine still looked startled as their swords flew to her. She cradled the staff in one arm and caught both swords easily. The knight and her brother were as unprepared for this fight as Merlin was. The only one who had yet to show was Emrys. He must have been stronger than she’d given him credit for, however. Though he hadn’t shown his face again, she did not doubt now that he was alive. Arthur and Gwaine would not both have left him unattended, and with Merlin already here, it was unlikely there was anyone else Arthur trusted enough for the job.

He was a sorcerer, after all, and Uther’s legacy remained in place.

Morgana spared a few precious seconds to assess the situation before turning and tossing Arthur’s sword to Mordred. The boy was clearly startled, but his reflexes were commendable and he caught its hilt easily—without the aid of magic, a feat she wasn’t sure too many of Arthur’s knights could even pull off. Throwing Mordred the better sword was a risk, but already he had confirmed her suspicion that he had skill with a blade, and she believed her show of good faith would be repaid.

Mordred never had wanted to work against her, unlike everyone else who stood in this room.

“Choose your side,” Morgana directed. “If you don’t stand with me, you stand against me.” And if he made the wrong decision, she was still confident that she was the best swordsman in the room, however out of practise she was. Arthur had always fallen to her blade, despite his insistences, and he’d always practised more than she.

“I can’t,” Mordred said. “I don’t want to fight any of you.”

He was just a terrified boy, little better than the child he had been when she’d first met him. Morgana set her jaw. She held the staff in her left hand, Gwaine’s sword in her right, and she had to mentally remind herself not to tighten her grip on either to the point where it would be detrimental. “I cannot afford any weakness,” she reminded him. She wasted no more time before beginning her attack.

-|-

“Why aren’t you helping him?” Arthur demanded when Merlin didn’t move.

Merlin opened his mouth, but he couldn’t say the words Arthur wanted to hear. In truth, there was a small part of him that didn’t want to help at all. Mordred was doing a fair job of parrying Morgana’s strikes, but she was forcing him into a corner; he’d have to go on the offensive soon. And as long as they were fighting each other, they weren’t standing united. 

And if one fatally injured the other, that would be one less person he might have to kill.

Because Morgana was right, even though he didn’t like to hear it. He _had_ killed. And he’d turned his back on both her and Mordred, even if she was wrong in thinking he had abandoned everyone who had magic.

But it was a rare thing indeed for him not to have to fight them, and rarer still that those magic users walked away as friends like Gilli had instead of turning their twisted gifts against Camelot to the point where he hadn’t had a choice but to kill them to preserve the future.

He didn’t want to keep doing that.

He didn’t want Morgana to be right.

“Mordred’s holding her off,” Merlin said uncertainly. He knew he should help; a large part of him still _wanted_ to, but…. But he didn’t want to hasten the future, didn’t want to do anything that would help see the prophecies come true, didn’t want to live with the knowledge that Arthur was going to die because he’d helped Mordred now.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “I know you must have suspicions about him, Merlin, but he’s just a boy. And he came to help.” 

“He came for answers,” Merlin corrected softly, “and he didn’t even get proper ones.” 

Merlin wasn’t sure whether Arthur ignored him or didn’t hear him in the first place, but the king caught Gwaine’s eye and jerked his head toward the fight. Gwaine raised his eyebrows but reached down to pull out the dagger he had strapped to his calf. Arthur reached for it, and Merlin—who had visions of this ending badly—moved to stop him.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, the annoyance clear in his voice, “just because _you_ are content to leave the boy to fend for himself, it doesn’t mean I am. He’s up against _Morgana_.”

“Mordred has magic,” Merlin argued.

“And Morgana is keeping him too winded to use it.”

“Not all spells are verbal. If he wanted to fight her with magic, he could.”

“Then why isn’t he?” Arthur asked, exasperated. “Because she has that staff? Or because this isn’t his fight and he doesn’t want any part of it?”

Gwaine was frowning at the two of them. “Merlin, what aren’t you telling us?”

“Nothing,” Merlin insisted.

Arthur snorted. “That’s about as believable as you being off collecting herbs when you disappear for the entire day.”

“We know you better than this,” Gwaine put in pointedly. “What do you have against him? Why don’t you want to help?”

“It’s complicated,” Merlin hedged. “A long story we don’t have time for. Just trust me, please.”

“You’re being an idiot,” Arthur said bluntly, but he knew better than to keep arguing and didn’t press the point.

He didn’t know enough to walk away from the fight, because he headed into the midst of it to try to help Mordred.

“Dollophead,” Merlin muttered, wishing he had more energy. There was a small part of him tempted to get Arthur out of here the way he had the last time Morgana had attacked, but he knew that would just make everything worse, in the end.

He was willing to sacrifice his secret now, if he had to. At the rate things were going, Morgana was going to find out sooner or later. 

And though Merlin wasn’t comfortable with the idea, he might need to trust Mordred to make sure Arthur made it out of this alive. If he wasn’t going to listen, and Merlin couldn’t _make_ him listen, then Merlin didn’t have very many options. Gwaine might readily agree to bodily dragging Arthur away, but Merlin knew how difficult it would be to actually stop him from coming back. 

Merlin wasn’t really sure that Arthur trusted Mordred, but he was at least willing to believe what Mordred said and clearly figured that anyone who wasn’t working with Morgana now didn’t deserve to be targeted by her for just that reason.

But Arthur didn’t know what Merlin did, didn’t know that Morgana and Mordred _would_ work together if he couldn’t stop them….

“You’re not just going to stand there, are you?” Gwaine asked, the disbelief clear in his voice. “I saw what you went through,” he added, lowering his voice, “but I’ve seen you go through a lot, and I can’t remember the last time I saw you look that lost.”

Merlin blinked and realized Gwaine had managed to rip one of the tapestries off the nearest wall and was now carrying the bundle of heavy cloth in his arms. “What are you—?”

“I need some weapon, don’t I?” He nodded toward the fight, where Morgana still seemed to have the upper hand, despite having to ward off both Mordred and Arthur.

But that was quite likely because Mordred wasn’t really fighting. He was just defending himself. Because he didn’t want to be part of this.

Merlin wanted to scream, because _he already was part of this_. He’d been part of it since he’d first befriended Morgana. And it was all Merlin’s fault, because he’d introduced them. He’d _started_ this. 

Merlin closed his eyes for a second to compose himself. “You’re right,” he acknowledged. “It’s just…been a long couple of days.” But that was just another excuse rolling off his tongue. Merlin could recognize them more easily now. Lying to himself had gotten harder, especially now that he wasn’t lying to the others anymore.

“I trust you, Merlin. Arthur and I both do, even if he doesn’t show it. Now come on.” Gwaine gave him his usual carefree grin, one Merlin hadn’t seen for a few days. “Let’s make sure the prat doesn’t get himself killed.”

Merlin swallowed. “Right,” he managed. He tried not to think about that being, quite seriously, precisely what they needed to do. Arthur put himself in many dangerous, potentially lethal situations. Merlin was getting rather used to that. But with Mordred and Morgana both here, it all felt so much worse. 

“How good are you at targeting your spells?” Gwaine asked in a low voice as they began their slow, roundabout approach. “Can you make sure you don’t hit Arthur by mistake?”

“Probably not,” Merlin muttered. He didn’t know what spell Morgana had used earlier to freeze Gwaine in place—that one would be very useful right now—and for the most part, his offensive spells either required him to hurl them in the approximate direction of his target or they covered a large area. Neither was exactly ideal. “I’m not even sure I can properly shield Arthur if he keeps moving. If he’d just stay behind me….”

Gwaine snorted. “I’m not even planning on staying behind you.”

“You should, though. This isn’t your fight.”

“From what Mordred says, it’s not his, either.”

Merlin sighed. “Give me the tapestry. You won’t be able to dodge anything if you’re lugging that around.” 

Gwaine looked at him doubtfully but handed it over. “And what am I supposed to use?”

Merlin fumbled with the tapestry for a moment before giving up and using a spell to slice the fabric at its top. He handed the newly-freed rod to Gwaine. “Use this.”

Gwaine was still giving him a searching look. “How much is this taking out of you, Merlin? How much are you pretending?”

“I’m fine,” Merlin insisted. “Let’s go.” He turned his attention to the fight, and Gwaine didn’t push it.

Mordred was fighting well—about as well as Arthur, surprisingly enough. Morgana’s movements made it clear that she was toying with them both, though. Arthur was forcing her to fight well, not giving her room to make mistakes that she may have been able to had she been fighting Mordred alone, but with only Gwaine’s dagger, Arthur had the disadvantage. He had to dance out of the way of Morgana’s blade when he ordinarily would have blocked her strikes. He was less comfortable with this style of fighting, and Morgana knew it.

But that didn’t mean Arthur was fighting poorly by any means. Since Morgana had kept her hold on Merlin’s staff, her movements were inhibited, too. She couldn’t move as easily or as quickly—which was why Merlin wasn’t entirely surprised to see that she was supplementing her fighting style with the occasional burst of magic to try to push Arthur out of the way while she dealt with Mordred or vice versa.

And then Merlin saw the crystal atop the staff pulse, and he felt the swell of magic, and he knew that whatever Morgana was planning now was more significant than anything she had done so far.

Gwaine, who had not stopped advancing when Merlin had, stepped forward and entered the fight, trying to catch Morgana by surprise. 

He did.

Mostly.

But a rod was not a sword, and though Morgana crumpled when he swept at her feet, it wasn’t enough. Or perhaps it had been too late; Merlin wasn’t really sure. All he knew was that at the same moment Morgana hit the floor, blinding light burst from the staff.

When the white faded, darkness replaced it. Not the darkness of before or even the black that descended when the torches were all extinguished. They were extinguished—Merlin had no doubt about that—but this was different. This was a blackness that belonged in the blackest of places, those that never saw light. It reminded Merlin of the times he had explored the caves near Ealdor—and how he had tried, once or twice, to see if he could find his way back out from their heart without magic lighting his way.

There was a slither of steel on steel, a bewildered cry and a hiss of pain. Morgana clearly intended to continue the fight. There was another clang, then another, and an awful thud, all in quick succession. He suspected she was still incanting spells—silently or under her breath, no doubt, with her eyes closed—and from the lack of light, he suspected she was managing to keep Mordred from casting any spells of his own to end this darkness. Or perhaps Mordred had taken advantage of the distraction and run, though Merlin rather doubted that. This darkness of Morgana’s was disorienting. The only way they would be able to fight would be to listen for her strike or to strike where they thought she now stood.

Merlin threw the tapestry to the floor—he hadn’t figured out a good spell to animate it and make it wrap itself around Morgana anyway—and shouted, “ _Forbærne_!”

The cloth burst into flames.

It cast an eerie light on the scene, and Merlin wanted to be sick. Morgana had never gotten to her feet; she’d merely begun controlling her sword and had allowed it to do the fighting for her. Mordred was wounded, a jagged cut on his sword arm that forced him to keep his other hand pressed to the gash. It did little to stop the bleeding. His eyes, Merlin saw in an instant, were also closed—though open eyes in that blackness would have done more harm than good anyway—and his lips were moving. He was, no doubt, uttering healing spells that Merlin really ought to learn to perfection. 

But Gwaine was on the floor, blood seeping from the side of his head, and Merlin really hoped it wasn’t as bad as it looked. Head wounds bled a lot. He knew that.

He also knew how much blood a person could stand to lose, and the flow wasn’t stemming. 

And that’s when Merlin realized that Mordred’s sword bore traces of blood as well.

_Clang_. 

Morgana’s sword dipped to defend her as Arthur, a grim expression on his face, surged forward in the attack. Merlin’s relief that he wasn’t hurt was palatable, and he began to creep forward to check on Gwaine without taking his eyes off the fight. When he reached the knight, Merlin immediately started to heal him, hoping to at least coax the wound closed. His probing fingers told him it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. The gash wasn’t very deep. Gwaine would need rest, but he would live. 

Morgana was still ignoring Merlin in favour of concentrating on the fight and maintaining her spells; she didn’t know the truth, didn’t think he had enough magic to be a threat, and perhaps rightly assumed that he didn’t want to cast any spells that might catch Arthur as well. Mordred was pale, but his own healing spells had worked well enough that he could wield his sword without difficulty, even though he must still be in pain. As Merlin watched, Mordred’s face hardened into a mask of determination, and he began to attack as well. Morgana’s sword was quick, but one sword could not easily defend assaults from two fronts.

And then it all went wrong.

It didn’t seem that way at first. Arthur and Mordred were both converging on Morgana, who had scrambled to her feet in an effort to keep out of range. She still held the staff, but Merlin wasn’t sure how much strength she had left in her. She wasn’t used to channelling her magic through such a route—to be fair, neither was he, but he had done it before to great effect much more often than she—and he suspected her earlier spell had taken more out of her than she’d anticipated, even with the help of the staff. 

It was perhaps because of the staff that the darkness wasn’t yet abating, despite the light cast by his fire, which seemed to be swallowed up farther on.

Couple that drain on her magic with the current spell to control the sword, and she must feel nearly as exhausted as he.

But as Mordred and Arthur moved to strike together, Morgana dodged _forward_ , abandoning the staff and rolling beneath her own spelled blade, and….

Arthur and Mordred both tried to adjust, and both managed to turn their blades to follow her path, but both equally had trouble fighting the momentum, and Mordred’s inexperience showed, and….

Merlin tried to scream, but the words were stuck in his throat. Death stopped destinies from being fulfilled, and Kilgharrah had told him long ago that he should kill Morgana, that he should kill Mordred. He’d never been able to do it.

And now the price for his failure had been paid.

Morgana’s laughter rang in Merlin’s ears as he surged forward, too late to catch Arthur. Mordred looked shocked, staring at the red stain glistening on his blade as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what had happened, what Morgana had tricked him into doing. It was not the alliance Merlin had imagined when he’d first learned of it, but it was an alliance nonetheless. Mordred had done Morgana’s bidding. He had…he had….

_He couldn’t have._ But healing spells had never been Merlin’s strong point, and he’d faced death too many times to be able to comfort himself with a lie now. He could feel the ineffectiveness of the spells he was uttering, so different from when he had been bent over Gwaine moments before. He’d need the Cup of Life to bring Arthur back, and he didn’t have that. Even if he _was_ more than willing to give his own life for Arthur’s because _it wasn’t supposed to be like this, not when there was still so much to be done…._

“Arthur,” Merlin croaked, giving him a small shake. “Arthur, you clotpole. You have to get up. You…you’re going to….” Merlin swallowed. “It’ll take me all day to get the stain out of that shirt if you don’t….” But his throat closed up on his words, and he couldn’t choke them out when he knew Arthur couldn’t hear him.

_It wasn’t supposed to end like this._

Merlin was dimly aware of the clatter of steel on stone, and within moments a stricken Mordred had joined him. Merlin hadn’t the strength to push him away, to be angry for what had been inevitable. He wanted to be. Oh, how he wanted to be! But when he looked at Mordred, all he could see was the scared young boy who had lost his father, who was being hunted by Uther’s guards, who was caught in circumstances that had spiralled out of control all too quickly.

“I didn’t mean to do this,” he whispered urgently, eyes raking Arthur’s body to assess the situation. He ignored his own wound and pressed his hands to Arthur’s instead. “ _Ge hailige_ ,” he began in earnest. “ _Þurhhæle dolgbenn. Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare. Ic hæle þina þrowunga. Wel cene hole; gestepe hole, þurhhæle. Licsar ge staðol nu_!”

_Heal_. The command rang in the spells, many of them the same ones Merlin had tried. But it wasn’t enough.

The spells could heal the flesh, seal the wound, but the damage had already been done by the blade forged in dragon’s fire.

It was too late.

The end had long been written when the prophecies were first divined, the destinies defined.

“The time of Once has passed,” Mordred murmured, finally accepting what Merlin already knew, what he couldn’t deny no matter how much he wished it.

Arthur was gone.


End file.
